Break me Down
by UnstableIntention
Summary: Years after the fire that killed his family, a damaged Derek Hale returns unprepared to survive in a world without pack. Captured and tossed into the fighting pits, he all but loses his humanity in a bid to survive. When a raid finally offers him the chance to escape he takes it, setting out on a collision course for a town called Beacon Hills and a certain sheriff's son.
1. Chapter 1

The pits.

In a way he'd come to love them and maybe that was the real crime.

Because there he could smash, and bash, and sink his teeth into something that gave under his jaws and squalled and screamed and _bled_. There, he could slice and shred and tear his opponent to literal pieces all while the crowd cheered him on. And the more brutal he became, the more fights he won, the louder they cheered.

Not that that mattered to him.

It wasn't about the clamor of the mob, or his status as the greatest fighter on the circuit, wasn't about the thousands of dollars that he brought in for the men that fought him. He didn't see any of it anyways. He was still staked out on the same chain in the same steel kennel every night, come rain or shine.

No, for him it was all about the fight, about giving and taking as much pain as possible because it was pain that cut through the anger.

He'd almost lost the first time; beaten, drugged, confused, and tossed in against a massive cur that was covered in scars and strapped with muscle. He'd barely managed to escape with his life, but he was a fast learner and fighting gave him an outlet. He'd come back to society because he felt ready, thought he finally had control of the anger that had consumed him after the fire, but he'd been horribly, horribly wrong. For months after his capture he had railed and raged against the bars that confined him, against the hands of the men that wrapped chains around his neck and dragged him to and from the ring, clubbed him and whipped him and drove him half to madness… until one day he stopped.

After that, fighting quickly became his salvation. He didn't remember when, or why, or if he even really _did _give up, but from then on he _let_ himself be dragged, clubbed, whipped, anything they wanted until he got thrown down into the dirt with an opponent and then there was no controlling him at all. The hot ball of fury he tamped down so hard would take him over and he saw red, ripping and tearing and slashing at anything in his path, unleashing the bottled up wrath of years on whatever sorry bastard had been tossed in with him.

They'd fought him against dogs at first, for a long time. Made him wonder if they even knew what he was. But of course they did. _Somehow_… they knew. They were smart enough to keep him drugged with a mild dose of mistletoe, a plant that worked much like wolfsbane and kept him locked inside his wolf form, so of course they knew. And he guessed that in the end it didn't matter how, or why. He had been immature, long and lanky with youth when he'd been captured, only just re-emerged into the world after hiding away in isolation for years after the fire that had destroyed his entire family. It had taken a good year before the vicious training and constant fights had turned him into what he was today – a powerhouse of experienced muscle, a ruthless killing machine whose control balanced on a hair-trigger.

And so slowly he slowly grew in size and in savagery, his fights becoming more and more brutal, the masses demanding greater and greater stakes; multiple opponents, wild animals, once or twice another werewolf, usually older, knotted and scarred from years of like treatment, driven almost mad from the constant exposure to the mistletoe which burned through their veins and made their bodies ache.

Still, it made no difference.

Sure, some fights were harder than others, like the time they sicced a whole pack of skinny lion hounds on him at once, or the time they brought in a small black bear they'd gotten from a zoo that had shut down. On those days he had to be carried out of the pits, collapsing under the weight of his injuries to the tune of the victory bells. On those days, he was lucky he healed fairly fast. Broken bones, deep lacerations that cut through layers of muscle, sweeping gashes that threatened to disembowel…

He welcomed the pain. Agony was a language he understood.

And in the end, it made no difference.

In the end, they all died the same way.

With his teeth in their throats.

Tonight wouldn't be any different.

It was almost his turn. He could feel it. From his cramped steel cage at the back of the warehouse he could hear the snaps and snarls of whichever beast preceded him into the arena, smell the blood, feel the pounding of feet vibrating up through the dirt floor as the crowd stamped and shouted, called encouragement and placed their final bets. It would only last a few minutes – the new ones never lasted long – and then it would be over, with a hiss and a death rattle from a broken throat.

A gentle clink drew his attention; a figure looming out of the dim and dirt, brandishing a baseball bat and a length of chain. He felt his hackles rise and he growled low in his throat; mostly just for the show of it. He had long ago given up the battle against the men who owned him, given up rebelling against the clubs and the modified, electric cattle-prods. The door of his crate swung open with a rusty creak and he held deathly still, hardly daring to breathe as hands reached in, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him out, looping the links of steel around his muzzle and behind his ears and twisting tight. The chain bit into him but he didn't show his teeth, didn't balk when the man who smelled like sweat and stale beer began to walk him into the center room, just got to his feet and trotted lightly at his side, keeping up his low warning growl as they went.

A warning growl that went entirely ignored.

The man pulled him swiftly down the tight, narrow corridor that cut through the throngs of people crowded around the makeshift pit, and he was quick to jump over the cheap, particle board wall before he could be thrown over it. Faces swam all around him, shouting, brandishing money and betting slips, a cacophony of sound and movement. A bare, dirty bulb swung lazily above his head, casting shadows in every direction. Once the noise had distracted him and made his sensitive ears ring, but now he tuned it out, the din fading away until all he could hear was the wild thunder of his own heartbeat, the harsh in and out of his breathing. The anger came over him hard and fast, boiled and bubbled up, setting his blood alight with adrenaline, his body flush with power. Widening his stance he clawed at the earth, ducked his head and snarled, spit dripping down gleaming canines.

Across the pit, two massive Rottweilers were thrown over the wall; huge, muscular males that stood almost as tall as he did. A quick sniff and a preliminary glance told him that these were brothers, raised and trained together, and he knew he was in for a good battle tonight. They would move in perfect synchronicity, hit him from both sides and protect each other's weaknesses, and with a bite force that came closer to rivalling his than most of his previous adversaries, they would serve well in putting him through his paces. Straining against the chain that held him in his corner, he put every ounce of rage and hatred that he had into a bone-chilling roar. Several spectators fell back from the edges of the pit, but the dogs only whined and lunged, throwing their weight hard at the end of their restraints.

He felt hands around his neck gripping the chains close, ready to throw them off, and then the bell clanged and he was free.

Leaping forward he barreled towards the larger of the two dogs, using his broad chest to slam into it and knock it off its feet, but before he could drive in for its throat the second was on him, throwing a leg over his back as it clamped down hard on the base of his neck. Bucking his powerful shoulders, he threw it off and rushed it before it could regain its balance, ripping a long, curving gash over its ribs. He felt one of his ears tear as the first dog came at him again, and he snarled at the tang of his own blood hitting the air. Spinning around, he ducked low and came in hard, just getting his teeth on the thick rolls of muscle in the neck. In another fight it would've meant one dog down, but before he could shake his head, before he could lock his jaws and crush the windpipe or break the great, pumping artery in the throat, he felt a vicious pain in his side where the second tore at his soft belly behind his rib cage. Shaking loose he leapt away, getting a bit of space with his back to the wall.

Above the fight men screamed and shoved, faces twisted, mouths gaping as they cursed and jostled for a better view, but he didn't spare them a second's attention. He had all he could deal with right in front of him, hitting him left and right like freight trains as they tried to tear him apart, opening wounds wet and red and raw on his hide. He didn't give a thought to losing, he never did, not that it wasn't always a very real possibility. This fight was hard and fast and fierce, and it was close, oh so close. Just the way he liked it, quite literally battling for his life. He thought the tide might turn when he got hold of the smaller dog's throat, bit hard and tasted a burst of coppery blood on his tongue, but just as he reared back with a vicious, twisting thrash he felt teeth on his foreleg, powerful jaws crushing, grinding down until the bone snapped and he turned with a sharp cry, slashing at the Rottweiler's eyes and face until it let go and fell back.

Staggering away to the back of the ring, he heaved and gasped for air, his brain a whirling fog of pain and fury. His eyes burned blue, his fangs lengthened, his claws sharpening as he dug them into the earth. To his left the smaller of the two dogs lay gurgling and kicking in the dirt, not long for the world, but his bigger problem was stalking towards him, slowly, steadily. He pulled his lips back hard in a wrinkled mask of hatred, showing dripping white canines as he let out a horrific, spine-tingling snarl, but it did nothing to stop the dog's advance. His mangled leg hung at an awkward angle, blood soaked his fur where it poured from his many wounds and ran down the side of his face from the tattered remains of his ear, and still he stood, strong, defiant, and angry. What was about to come would be violent, fast, and agonizing, and he snapped his teeth, bracing himself for the pain.

His vision flashed and he saw his opponent, as if in slow motion, gather itself, saw its hind legs curl, ready to spring, and then the world exploded.

Warning bells rang out and in an instant chaos reigned, the people crowded around the pit scattering like roaches. He flinched, hunched low as he sought out the source of the panic, his eyes searching. Above the shouting, above the pounding feet and jostling, the barking and the clang of kennels and chains he could hear sirens, hear the slamming of car doors, the _schlock _of cartridges being pumped into rifle chambers. Someone tripped over the low wooden wall and into the ring, looped a leather strap around the neck of the startled Rottweiler and began to drag it away, and in the commotion, above the cacophony, something in him jumped. Snapping his head from side to side, his enhanced eyesight quickly found a clear path between all the running, between all the boots and ratty sneakers kicking up furrows in the dust. There, on the other side of the warehouse, sunlight pouring through a hole punched in the bottom of the corrugated metal wall.

He froze.

This was his chance, his first and probably only chance and he froze.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, a thousand fears, and none of them mattered. It didn't matter that he didn't know what was out there. Didn't matter that he knew nothing about the world outside of the pits, knew nothing about the law. All he knew was that this was his chance.

Lunging forward, he leapt the wall with one smooth, easy bound, staggering on his bad leg when he landed on the other side. Ignoring the hot, vicious pain the slashed at him when the broken shards of bone grated together he bolted madly for the opening, lowering his shoulder and crashing through the narrow space. For a minute he was blinded, the late afternoon sunlight cutting at him as he lost his footing and went careening nose over tail down a steep incline, landing hard on bruised ribs in refuse-filled ditch. Dazed and aching, he lay as still as he could, pressed low in two inches of cold, filthy water as he tried to catch his breath, shouts and sirens blaring overhead.

Finally, with a low snarl of pain, he dragged himself shakily to his feet and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

"No! We're never gonna quit, aint nothin' wrong with it, just actin' like we're animals!"

'Stiles' Stilinski's shitty blue jeep flew down the road, pushing the limits of speed that either could handle. It was getting dark and rain had started to fall but he kept the windows down anyways, enjoying the way the cool, damp air curled around his throat where the collar of his leather jacket was open over his bright red hoodie. He had Nickelback pounding on the stereo and his long, slim fingers tapped out the beat against the steering wheel, his left knee keeping time as he pressed down harder on the accelerator.

"No, no matter where we go, cause everybody knows, we're just a couple animals!"

Taking a curve just a little too fast, he had to lurch forward to catch the black duffel bag that threatened to go sliding off the passenger seat and spill paint cans all over the floor. Curfew was coming on fast and he knew he wasn't going to make it, but hey, if he got pulled over he wasn't getting a ticket. And it sure as hell wasn't _his_ fault that he had to drive six miles outside of Beacon Hills to express himself nowadays, now that every cop on the force knew his tag.

"So come on baby, get in! Get in, just get in! Check out the trouble we're in!"

Speaking of trouble…

Stiles rubbed his fingers together against his thumb. Shit.

He had Pacific Ice blue all over himself, trickles running up his wrist and disappearing into the cuff of his jacket. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed he had a streak along his jaw too. Have to get rid of that before the inevitable, half-hearted interrogation. There was a can of gas in the back of the garage that they used to fill the mower – that should work. He'd forgotten to pick up some thinner when he'd stopped at a hardware store to get a sack full of spray bombs. An _out_-_of_-_town_ hardware store.

Stiles knew that graffiti was 'wrong,' more specifically that it was defacement of public property. Growing up with a sheriff for a dad meant always being hyper-aware of all the little laws you were breaking. But he'd found that he had a knack for creating large, colorful artscapes when it was on the side of a building, and it was a good way to fill his spare time. Not to mention it let him get out some of his more destructive tendencies without doing anything too… violent.

And he did have violent tendencies.

After his mom had died nightmares had begun to consume him, sudden urges to scream, shatter glass, or pound his fists bloody becoming a constant companion. Panic attacks too became a daily routine, mini freak-outs breaking him down in the middle of class, and as young people were wont to do his peers were spiteful and vindictive about it, teasing, heckling, jeering, physically violent when no one was looking and verbally abusive all the rest of the time. His best friend Scott had stood by him and still did, taking more than one black eye in the process, but over the years Stiles had continued to withdraw. His father was a good man, but still caught in the quagmire of his own grief, and didn't know what to do to help his fucked-up teenage son. In a meager effort to appease him Stiles had joined the lacrosse team his freshman year, but when a hazing session in the locker room went bad and Stiles had a full-blown break down in the showers, it was the beginning of the end for him.

In the face of his classmates' cruelty he became cold, sullen, hardening himself in an effort to avoid the harassment and humiliation. Closing himself off from anyone and everyone, he traded out his brightly colored layers for heavy boots and a zippered leather jacket, grew his thick brown hair out to a tousled, 'just-been-sexed' wave, and started cutting class to smoke on the bleachers out by the field. His teachers, his coach, even the guidance counselor all came after him with concerns for his new attitude, but he was smart enough to run straight A's despite the occasional absence, and so there wasn't a lot they could do. His dad too was worried; tried to talk, made stilted, awkward efforts to draw his son back out, but Stiles was having none of it. He'd created a new persona for himself, found a face that wasn't weak, that didn't have crippling anxiety or suffocating nightmares, and he had no intention of looking back.

And so slowly his dad gave up. Or at least that's what it felt like. And it hurt them both, despite everything. The Sheriff had been badly broken by the loss of his wife, and his son's apparent rejection got withdrawal in return. The man just didn't know how to support the bitter, angry teenager, and so, unable to share their pain, they hid from each other. Still, desperate to connect, longing to repair the broken relationship between himself and his father even though he didn't know it, Stiles began to act out in new ways; breaking windows, speeding, skipping out on his curfew, and his current favorite pastime – spray bombing bridges, abandoned buildings, and the old water tower up on Beacon Point.

Not that it mattered.

Every deputy on the force knew that the Stilinski's were falling apart.

The muscle in Stiles' jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth, reaching over to crank his stereo even higher.

"You're beside me on the seat, got your hand between my knees, and you control how fast we go by just how hard you wanna… FUCK!"

Stiles' seatbelt bit into his shoulder as he slammed hard on the brake, his jeep fishtailing wildly on the rain-slicked asphalt. The thick trees on either side of the street blurred in the dizzying sweep of his headlights and his heart leapt into his throat as he grabbed at the wheel, trying desperately to keep the car straight as it careened wildly towards the wide, black shadow that had emerged from the darkness like a wraith. The rules drummed into his head since he'd first learned to drive at the age of ten kept him pumping the brake, preventing them from locking up; still, the jeep's tires skidded on the wet pavement, the vehicle juddering hard as he stared out the windshield with horror as the shadow grew and twisted in the flash of his high beams – a dog – massive, black, eyes glowing in the rain. Stiles had a moment, a single moment of sheer panic as the jeep continued on its collision course, helpless to do anything but watch as the car swung in a wide arc toward the animal until a heavy thump and a pained, high-pitched yelp ended the violent tailspin and left him hunched over the wheel, his knuckles white, gasping for air.

Stiles fought his seatbelt with cold, shaking fingers, clawing at the latch until it finally released and he practically fell out the jeep's door to the pavement, the rain hammering down and immediately soaking his hair, running like ice down the back of his neck beneath the collar of his jacket. Jerking his hood up over his head, he ran around the back end of the jeep into the center of the road, saw the heavy dent and thin streak of red trickling down the bumper. With fear and guilt spiking in his throat, he turned to the large, dark lump lying motionless ten yards off, approached carefully with his heart in his throat.

It was a dog.

At least, he thought it was a dog.

Because it was huge. Massive. Flat on its side it looked almost as long as he was, and if he didn't know that there weren't any wolves in Beacon Hills he might not have gone any closer. He could just see its chest rising and falling, see its broad ribs expand in shallow pants and knew it was still alive, so dog, wolf, whatever, it was hurt. He knew how stupid it was to poke at a wounded animal, but there was no way he could leave it. For the space of a second he debated calling his dad, but that was never a good idea these days, and so instead he grabbed on to his control, fought the tightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time and ran back to the jeep. After backing it up carefully, he leapt out and dropped the tailgate, pushing and shoving at the random junk until he'd cleared the floor, spreading out an old Lacrosse bleacher blanket over the bare metal.

"All right buddy," he murmured quietly as he turned back to the dog, which hadn't made even the smallest effort to move or get away, "This is gonna hurt. Just… don't go all Cujo on me ok?"

Reaching out a tentative hand, he placed it lightly on the dog's shoulder, stroked once down its side. The animal's eyes were closed but it had lifted its lip under Stiles' touch, showing off one long, sharp canine, and he fought not to let his fear show. Animals could smell it, and he hoped a steady, soothing tone of voice might override what was no doubt a serious stink coming off him right now.

"Gonna get you some help ok? Gonna get you all fixed up."

Moving around behind the dog, he ran his hand down its side once more before slipping his arms beneath its ribs and its back legs, breathing out to steady himself. The thing looked like it could weigh as much as he did, but he'd started lifting weights during practice last year, and he could feel adrenaline burning in his veins. Gritting his teeth, he shifted his grip and heaved, unable to be overly gentle because the dog was just as heavy as he thought it would be, possibly even more so. He winced as it made a pained, high-pitched whining sound, but it was the tickling sort of cough at the back of it that made him afraid, conjured up thoughts of punctured lungs and throats full of blood.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles muttered miserably. "Almost, just…"

And then he was in the back of the jeep, cramped painfully alongside a pile of workout clothes, filthy trainers and his lacrosse stick, a couple of empty Gatorade bottles. The dog whimpered again as Stiles laid him down, his eyes still tightly shut, and he could see now that there was a deep, heavy gash on its abdomen, bloody and ragged, one of its forelegs flopping uselessly at a horrible angle. Stiles touched the thick ruff of fur around its neck with shaking fingers, murmured another apology before carefully closing up the back and diving for the driver's seat.

He didn't remember driving to the clinic. Didn't remember the sharp curve at the corner of 3rd and Talbert, didn't remember the sign that welcomed him to Beacon Hills, didn't remember... All he could hear was the shallow panting, the occasional wounded keening sound that came from behind the back seat whenever he hit a bump or swung a corner too hard. He tried to keep up a steady stream of reassurances but they were tainted with apologies, his own guilt and shock coloring his voice. He must have blown a good number of stop signs on his way through town because the next thing he knew he was pulling into the little parking lot with a screech of tires, his heart sinking into his stomach at the sight of the darkened windows. Jerking his keys from the ignition he ran to the front door and began pounding his fists against the wood.

"Dr. Deaton? Dr. Deaton!"

Another minute of pounding and shouting his throat hoarse had light blooming behind the glass, the vet appearing in the window with concern on his face.

"Mr. Stilinski? What…"

"Oh thank god!" Stiles breathed, grabbing the man's wrist and dragging him towards the jeep. "I hit a dog!"

* * *

**Lyrics are from 'Animal' and belong to Nickelback. Reviews Please (:**


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Stiles chanted as he dragged the vet towards the back of his jeep. "It came out of nowhere, I didn't see it I swear! It's really bad, he's bleeding and he can't breathe and his leg's all…"

"Mr. Stilinski!" Deaton said firmly, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders and giving him a little shake. "You need to calm down right now."

Stiles nodded, breathed hard through his nose and tried to count, pushing down the first panic attack he'd felt coming on in years. There was a knot in his throat that he couldn't swallow down and his fingers were shaking, so he wrapped them hard around the tailgate of his jeep, gripping the cold, wet metal until his knuckles turned white. From the corner of his eye he could see Deaton ducking sideways to take in his dented bumper, the splash of red that the rain hadn't been able to wash away. His stomach lurched hard and he tried to tighten his rip even more but his fingers slipped, getting pinched beneath the handle as he dropped the hatch.

Deaton's fingers closed hard around his bicep and jerked him back roughly, and any other time Stiles would have thrown him off, snapped or cursed, but the biting pressure was almost a comfort in that moment, at least until he turned to face the vet who was staring into the back of his jeep with a look almost like fear on his typically closed-off face. He was shifting carefully forward, keeping his hand around Stiles' arm and pushing him back and away from the dog that lay panting and bloody in his trunk, pink tongue flicking out between sharp white teeth to curl over its nose again and again in a motion Stiles recognized as one of self-soothing. It made a pained attempt to lift its head and he could have sworn that its eyes burned an electric, fluorescent blue, Pacific Ice blue. It was… arresting, in a way a dog's gaze shouldn't be, and for just a second it stared straight at him and his whole body went cold before the animal's head dropped heavily back to the floor and it huffed the most pathetic, hurt sort of sound he'd ever heard in his life, its entire body shaking with the effort.

"I don't… I don't know where I hit him, I…" Stiles stammered, his words coming out fast and jumbled in that way they did on those rare occasions that his iron-clad control on his emotions slipped. "His leg, his… I think his lungs. There was blood in his mouth…"

"Were you bitten?"

Stiles jerked at the harsh, abrupt question, the vet's face flat and stony once again as his eyes darted over the animal's form, no doubt taking stock of each injury, no doubt more of them than Stiles could see.

"What?" he muttered, his brain taking a second to catch up with the question. "What… n, no. No he didn't… I mean he showed his teeth a little but I think he's just scared. He didn't try to…"

"All right."

The vet seemed satisfied with the answer and moved forward towards the dog's head, murmuring low, quiet words that Stiles couldn't hear but he thought Deaton must just be trying to reassure it, soothe it.

"We need to get him inside," he said, this time loud enough that he knew he was the one being talked to. "Take the edge of the blanket, gently now."

Stiles gripped on tight to the lacrosse quilt, lifted, and it was infinitely easier getting the dog out of the car with another person's help that it was getting him in alone. Deaton was at the dog's head, continuing with his stream of low reassurances as he walked backward into the darkened office, pushing through the wooden gate behind the counter and into the back, using his shoulder to click on the lights in the cold, white surgery. The dog emitted a high-pitch whine from where he hung in the sling of the blanket, his injured leg pressed tight against his chest as they jostled him up onto the steel surgical table as easily as they could. It barely moved when they let go, flat out on its side as its chest shuddered up and down with ragged breaths, and Stiles felt his stomach roll at the sight of the deep, jagged gashes on its abdomen, layers of muscle and tendon showing pink and white and ragged beneath the blood.

Deaton was quickly and efficiently gathering equipment onto a rolling tray and snapping on a pair of latex gloves as Stiles backed shakily away, attempting to control his breathing. The vet's low, steady voice should have been soothing as he clicked on an overhead lamp, shining viciously down on the filthy, matted black fur and shaking limbs, but instead it just confused him, made him even more anxious as when spoke to the dog as though it were a person, explaining what was happening step by step, and for just a minute Stiles thought it was him being spoken to. He didn't know what to do with himself, how to help, and so he simply did his best to keep out of the way as Deaton turned on a pair of clippers, shaving thick black fur away from the edges of the deep wound in the dog's abdomen.

Stiles' hands shook as he dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket, tapped out a single, slim cylinder and stuck it between his lips. It was automatic; he didn't think about where he was, who was watching him as he lifted his lighter, only needed the calming rush of nicotine that he'd learned to use as a tool, a habit that occupied his fingers and helped him stave off the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Don't light that in here."

Stiles almost snarled at the firm but quiet command that came from the vet, who hadn't even looked up from where he leaned over the dog to deliver it.

"Oxygen tanks," he explained, nodding towards the steel canisters near the wall. "Rubbing alcohol. Take it outside."

Not judging then. Not scolding.

"Sorry."

Snapping the lighter shut, he stuffed it back in his pocket and stuck the cigarette behind his ear. "I just… Jesus!" He shuddered out a breath and rubbed his hands hard over his face.

"Relax Mr. Stilinski," the vet murmured, setting aside a bottle of saline solution and calmly threading a needle. "You're taking it worse than he is."

"How do you figure?" Stiles asked miserably, gesturing to the battered and bleeding animal sprawled across the operating table. "Look at him!"

Deaton chose that moment to tug gently on his thread and pull the tattered remains of the animal's ear back into place. Stiles' stomach rolled violently.

"Oh god!"

"He'll be all right," Dr. Deaton stated calmly, knotting his thread and snipping off the excess, moving on to the deep wound on the dog's soft belly. "His leg will need to be splinted for a few days, and he's badly dehydrated. Some good food and rest and he'll be back in shape in no time."

Stiles wasn't oblivious to the grim frown that passed briefly over the vet's face as he glanced up towards the animal's head, its tongue once again running out over its nose again and again in an attempt to combat the stress it was under. Stepping in close to the table, he reached up hesitantly before dropping his hand down onto the dog's shoulder, just barely ruffling its thick fur.

"Shouldn't you give him some pain killers?" he asked in a choked voice as he felt it flinch beneath his feather-light touch. "Anesthetic or something?"

"In normal circumstances, perhaps," Deaton replied, his dark eyes tracking Stiles' hand as it stroked lightly down the dog's side instead of watching his own fingers as he deftly closed the gash with neat black sutures. "In this case… anesthetizing an animal that's already in shock can cause some… extremely adverse effects."

"Like what?" he asked, not because he was especially curious, but because when he was nervous he sought information.

"Death."

Stiles swallowed hard and closed his eyes, his fingers curling in the dog's heavy black rough. He opened them again in time to see Deaton lay a heavy orange swipe of iodine down over the long line of stitches before pasting a strip of clean, dry cotton over the whole thing. He felt an immense sense of relief once the open layers of skin and muscle were out of sight, and felt his cheeks flush when a shaky sigh escaped him. Deaton didn't seem to notice, however, instead taking hold of the rolling table and maneuvering it carefully into the small side room where the x-ray machine was kept. Stiles watched through the window as he stretched the dog's foreleg out carefully, draping the heavy lead apron over its body. He could hear him speaking to it quietly, explaining what he was doing before adjusting the arm of the machine and donning his own apron, dropping on a pair of thick safety goggles and taking the toggle in hand, rapidly clicking out a set of three images. Stiles stepped up to help remove the apron from the dog's shoulders and roll the surgical table back out into the surgery while Deaton collected the images, snapping them into the light box and crossing his arms as he stared intently at the crumbly mess of bone that glowed an eerie blue-white against the darker background.

"How bad is it?" Stiles asked, stepping in close to his side and trying to interpret the curves and lines in front of him.

"It's not good," the vet stated flatly, pointing to the middle of the dog's leg with an ink pen. "You see this here? All these dark lines?"

Stiles nodded before following Deaton back to the dog's side, where the man began to gather the supplies he would need to fashion a splint.

"You've got yourself a bum leg my friend," he said, talking to the dog again before turning his attention back to Stiles again. "He's got quite a mess of hairline fractures in there," he explained. "The bone was crushed."

"Crushed?" Stiles choked. "But I didn't… I mean, I know I hit him, but I didn't go over him, I swear…"

"Relax, Mr. Stilinski, please," Deaton intoned. "Your jeep's not the culprit, I assure you."

"What are you talking about?" he asked dully, unable to understand how such might be the case.

"Well, going by his condition alone, I'd say he's been fought."

"Fought?"

"Yes. Your jeep can't have done this type of damage Stiles. I doubt you did anything more than bump him off his feet. No, these?" He pointed to the dog's tattered ear and bandaged side. "These are fighting wounds."

"Wait," Stiles said in disbelief, "You're telling me… that there's _illegal_ dog-fighting going on… in _Beacon Hills_."

Deaton's mouth twisted in a small, grim sort of smirk. "Something like that," he muttered. "You see this type of thing often enough in… dog's that come out of the ring. Bite wounds, broken bones, starvation, dehydration…"

The dog emitted a sharp, high-pitched whine as the vet took its leg in his hands, strapping it into a splint that reached from its elbow down to its ankle. Finishing with the Velcro straps, he touched it lightly on the shoulder, frowned.

"I'm sorry, my friend," he murmured. "But you'll be good as knew soon enough."

"He will?"

Deaton jumped a bit, as though he'd somehow forgotten that Stiles was there, and it took a moment for him to respond, as though he were considering his response.

"I believe so, yes. It will take… a while. But he should recover well enough."

Stiles nodded, his throat dry, and spent the next few minutes stroking the dog's spine as Deaton began collecting his things, throwing out bloody gauze and gathering tools to be sterilized. He seemed to be keeping a close eye on Stiles, as though he were afraid that he might be too rough and hurt the dog, or that it might suddenly break and take a snap at his fingers, but it simply lay on its side breathing heavily, running a long, pink tongue over its nose.

"I'm sorry," Stiles murmured, and the dog's tattered ear flicked faintly, one eye cracking open and rolling back to stare at him, a deep sort of crystal blue that was strange to see in a dog's face, but not near the glowing brilliancy he thought he'd glimpsed from the back of his jeep.

The dog stared at him for a moment, quiet and strangely intent before it huffed a weary sort of sigh and dropped its head back to the table. Deaton appeared at his side then, a frown in his normally stoic face, before he grabbed the edge of the table and began wheeling it into the back where the animals were housed. Stiles followed on his heels, all the way to the end past the small steel cages where the cats and the terriers were kept to the larger kennels divided by brick walls and gated by chain link fencing. They moved all the way to the last kennel even though only the first two were occupied, and Stiles was quick to dart forward and open the door, stepping carefully over the thin wool pad and grabbing on to the end of the lacrosse quilt before carefully lowering the dog down onto the bedding. The vet watched closely as he climbed out again over top of the animal, but its eyelids didn't even flicker. It just lay there, limp in the middle of the quilt, and if its chest weren't rising and falling with labored breaths Stiles would have been sure it was dead.

"You're sure he'll be ok?" he asked jerkily, gripping at the elbows of his jacket as Deaton closed the kennel door silently, sliding the latch him.

"I believe so," Deaton replied in his characteristic tone, giving nothing away. "Eventually."

Stiles gaze jerked toward him, confused by the addition, concerned.

"What…"

"Mr. Stilinski, I think it's time you went along home," the vet said flatly. "He'll be fine for tonight, and you both need some sleep."

Stiles swallowed against the sudden, bone-deep weariness the came down over him like a heavy winter coat, thick and warm and stifling and he nodded.

"Yeah," he muttered around a thick tongue. "Yeah, I should… I'll come back tomorrow. If that's… I mean if that's cool."

"The clinic's open until seven," Deaton stated simply.

Stiles only nodded, took one last look at the dog lying still and quiet in the kennel, and headed for his jeep.


	4. Chapter 4

The Sheriff's cruiser was waiting in the driveway when Stiles pulled in and he cursed under his breath when his headlights illuminated the garage door. There was no way he could open it to get to the gasoline without his dad hearing the rattle and creak of the thing, and it would be a bigger pain in the ass to try and climb the tree up to his bedroom window than to just go through the front door and face the music. He was a lot of things, but a sneak wasn't really one of them. He was blatant in his delinquency, proud of his misbehavior, and even though he would never admit it, not even to himself, getting his dad's attention was kind of the point. Leaving his jeep in the driveway, he locked the doors and shoved his keys down into the pocket of his jeans before slipping into the house.

The dining room was dark as was the living room, and the small part of him that always seemed to hover behind his left shoulder, that was still a scared young man, was immensely relieved not to find his father sitting quietly with the bottle of Jack he thought he'd hidden in the back of the old curio cabinet. The rest of him was steeling himself, ready for the confrontation, the weight on his shoulders getting heavier and heavier with each stair he climbed. At the top of the landing he found himself faced with a choice; turn right and collapse into his bed and pretend that this, all of this, hadn't happened, or go left, where a thin sliver of gold light worked its way through the crack where his father's office door hung ajar.

He could have gone right. Could have pretended. The Stilinskis were good at that… pretending. Pretending that they were ok, pretending that they weren't falling to pieces one lie at a time, every day a little bit colder and a little bit worse than the last…

It was probably what he should have done.

Bit of a surprise then, that his feet moved without his permission, turned and carried him down to the end of the hallway where he pushed the door open with an ominous, haunted house creak and stepped inside the little, dimly lit office. His father was leaning heavily on his elbows, hunched over the top of his desk which was covered in a sprawling mess of case files. His head was tipped down and he didn't look up from his reading when Stiles came in, didn't acknowledge him at all as he crossed the bit of worn carpet silently, sat down in the chair before the desk, curling in on himself like a student before the principal, ready for his sentencing.

As silent minutes ticked by Stiles decided that this might be the worst of his father's tactics so far, whether it was an intentional punishment or not. Being solidly ignored, completely, as though he weren't even there at all, was, _surprisingly_, viciously painful. Especially coming from his dad. As his eyes traced the exhausted lines of the Sheriff's shoulders, the weariness in the man's face, his mind wandered back to a time when they'd felt like family instead of strangers, a time when he'd felt like he could go to his dad with anything, could shelter himself within the man's arms. Now he just felt a terrible ache in his chest and a coldness in his limbs, a distance that made him sick.

"Well son," the Sheriff sighed, finally breaking the silence as he tossed his pen onto the desktop between them and straightened in his chair, finally looking at him with a resigned sort of disappointment that cut like a knife. "Gonna tell me where you were this time?"

Stiles swallowed, forced himself not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He supposed this was a chance, an opportunity to break the pattern of distrust and withdrawal between them. Because like his dad always said; once an occurrence, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern. And it was definitely a pattern. What they had was definitely a pattern. But the thing was, their pattern was safe. It wasn't perfect, hell, wasn't even good, but it was safe. Better the devil you know…

"I don't know what to do anymore Stiles," his father said softly, breaking him out of his scattered musings. He'd neglected to take his Adderall for the last three days and he was feeling the effects along with his recent adrenaline spike; a sort of jittery tension that had him fighting to keep his knee from bouncing, had his thoughts in a spin. "I just…" Sighing hard, the man scrubbed his hands over his face. "I just don't know what to do anymore Stiles. You're almost two hours past your curfew…"

It was the total defeat in the man's voice that caught Stiles attention. It wasn't something he'd ever associated with his Dad, and it scared him. So of course his mouth leapt out ahead of him, deployed the sharp, acidic sarcasm and stinging words that were his first line of defense.

"That wasn't my fault!" he snapped, biting down hard on his tongue when he realized just how badly the sentence had come out. "I would've been on time, but…"

He trailed off, hit with a sudden wave of hesitancy. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to tell his dad about the dog, but the words had caught in his throat and he couldn't seem to cough them up.

"But what, Stiles?" his dad snapped, anger finally creeping into his voice, and that was familiar. That was safe. A part of the pattern. "What's your excuse this time?"

"I hit a dog," he snarled through clenched teeth, his own anger boiling up out of his chest and forcing the words out to hang in the air between them. And that was a part of the pattern too. "It jumped out in front of me, just… came out of the trees. Out by the Preserve…"

"And what the hell were you doing out at the Preserve? Stiles?" his father asked, standing up from his chair and slamming a fist down onto his desk. "I told you that you could go to school and to Scott's. Last I checked the Preserve is neither of those places. I swear Stiles, if I find out you were out there drinking again…"

"I wasn't drinking!" Stiles shouted. "You think I'm stupid enough to drink and drive?! It was raining and the damned thing jumped out in front of me! I damn near flipped the jeep trying not to kill it…"

And that was the wrong thing to say.

Or… maybe the right thing…

The Sheriff went pale and clammy as he sank slowly back into his chair, his face like a sheet as all the fight went out of him, the fury fading from his eyes.

"Were you hurt?" he asked throatily, his voice thick and hoarse.

Stiles was quiet a minute, tempted to just get up and leave. He hated pity, hated… _concern_. It made his skin feel too tight.

"I'm fine," he muttered finally. "But I had to go to Deaton's; I couldn't just leave it there."

The Sheriff sighed again, ran a hand through his hair, and Stiles was struck one more time by the weariness in his father's face, the lines that told the story of their lives if you could just read them right.

"Fine," he assented, "You couldn't leave it. But that doesn't change anything Stiles. You shouldn't have been out there at all and I… I can't be worrying about where you're at anymore." His hands went unconsciously to the mess of paper on the desk, lifted the cover of a file before dropping it again into the same position. "I've got other things…"

Stiles narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to run his gaze over the files. The Sheriff noticed his sudden interest and frowned, shuffled the papers together quickly and stuffed them into a desk drawer.

"I can't do this anymore Stiles," he said with a cold finality. "_You _can't do this anymore."

Stiles arched an eyebrow, confused by the abruptly serious look on his dad's face. A chill gripped the back of his neck and he had the sudden horrible premonition that he was about to be told to pack his bags for boot camp.

"Give me your keys."

Ok.

That was worse.

"What?!" he yelped. "Dad! You can't… I… how will I get to school?"

"You can walk," the Sheriff deadpanned, his hand out expectantly, waiting. "Or you can take your bike."

"Dad, you…" Stiles sputtered, "You can't _take_ the jeep. I need it! I have class. And… practice, and…"

His mind latched on to the one excuse he hoped my work.

"And I have to go back to Deaton's! I _told_ him I'd be back; I have to… I have to make sure the dog is…"

"_Keys_, Stiles."

A full minute passed as he sat frozen in his chair, staring at his dad with his mouth open before he was finally able to move, shoving shaking fingers into his jeans pocket and gripping his keys tight, the metal teeth biting into his palm as he clutched them in his fist. A sneer curled his mouth as he tossed them at his dad, who leaned away but caught them against his chest all the same, peeling off the key to the jeep before tossing them right back.

"I'll be home early for the rest of the week," he said, refusing to look at his son. "So you're going to go to school, you're going to go to practice, and you're going to come home. Understood?"

Stiles felt the anger jump inside of him again, bucking against the restraint of authority. "I'm _going_ to the vet's after practice," he hissed. "_I'm_ the one who hit that dog, the least I can do is make sure he's ok."

The Sheriff frowned, arched an eyebrow, and Stiles had the sudden feeling that he was being measured and judged. He didn't know what his father saw, but eventually he relaxed in his chair, his body going slack as he nodded.

"Fine," he conceded, pointing a finger. "One hour. Practice is over at five? You be home by six thirty."

"You're only giving me a half hour to walk?" Stiles yelped in disbelief.

"Not my problem Stiles," the Sheriff shrugged. "Figure it out, or don't, but you be home by six-thirty. Now go to bed. I don't want you late for school tomorrow."

Stiles hands fisted at his sides at the clear dismissal, iron control the only thing that kept him from flipping his chair and blowing his stack. As it was he gave the chair a good kick on his way out but it only served to make him feel childish, as did slamming his bedroom door hard enough to shake the frame. His eyes lit briefly on the window as he considered chain smoking his way through the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket but the thought was a fleeting one. Out from under his father's eye he felt his system starting to crash, a hot, heavy weariness flooding his muscles. Crashing into his bed face first, jacket, sneakers and all, he grabbed on to his pillow and let the darkness pull him under.

**XXX**

In the back of the darkened vet clinic, Alan Deaton gazed down at his newest patient with a frown on his typically calm face.

He'd been speaking quietly to the werewolf for almost an hour since the young Stilinski boy had left, but he hadn't gotten the reaction he'd hoped for. Instead of shifting back into his human form, or even his beta form, the wolf had lain stock still in the bottom of the kennel, shivering in fear despite the vet's reassurances that he was safe within the protected walls of the clinic. When Deaton had first revealed his knowledge of the wolf's true nature, he had cracked one bright blue eye and rolled it back toward him, clearly frightened but unable to summon the strength to raise his heavy head. Slowly, gradually, his body had relaxed again under the lull of Deaton's low, calm voice, though he was still occasionally racked with tremors, and it was evident that exhaustion and blood loss had taken its toll when the animal's huge chest heaved a massive sigh and it settled down into the blankets, breathing deep and slow in sleep.

Deaton sighed, dragged a hand over his face. He suspected that the man had been drugged with mistletoe, effectively trapping him inside his lupine form, but without a blood sample he couldn't be sure and at this juncture he wasn't comfortable with taking one. Still, it seemed he should at least be _trying_ to shift back at this point. The emissary had to wonder then if there wasn't something more at play, some long lasting trauma locking a man's mind inside a wolf's body, or if there was even any semblance of a man left. He'd seen werewolves come out of fighting rings once or twice before, so imprisoned and so abused for so long that they didn't know anything else anymore.

Which left him with a dilemma.

It was his job, his duty to maintain the balance, and before him was the potential to gravely upset that balance.

The wolf wasn't an alpha, that much was certain, but it was certain too that he had taken a life, an innocent one, and that mattered. Whether it had happened in the ring or not, it mattered. He couldn't give a person _the_ bite, but he could give a person _a _bite, and a bad one at that. He was a fighter, aggressive, volatile – he wouldn't have survived the pits if he weren't. It would be the safest thing to have him put down. Perhaps even the kindest thing.

But would it be the right thing?

He'd been fought, hit by a car, hauled around by one stranger and poked and prodded by another all in one night, fear and stress and pain more than any living thing should be expected to tolerate well, and yet he hadn't reacted with aggression. He hadn't bitten the Stilinski boy, hadn't slashed or snapped…

Whether it was the mind of a man or the mind of a wolf within him, it would appear that for now, he was... under control. Somehow, beyond all hope or expectation, he'd retained that, human or lupine, a sharp respect for the human body and the human constitution capable of cutting through a fog of fear and pain thick enough to blind anyone.

Safe then.

For now.

With only a fraction of the guilt he should feel, Deaton latched the gate of the kennel securely before flicking off the lights and locking up.


	5. Chapter 5

When Stiles' alarm went off an hour earlier than normal the next morning, he was almost willing to let the thing blare, certain he could sleep through it if he had to. He quickly learned however that that was entirely incorrect, and so he resorted to just throwing out his arm and sweeping everything on his bedside table down onto the floor. It was another twenty minutes before he came into enough awareness to realize that he was late and still had to walk into school. Jerking upright with a snort, he mopped the drool off his cheek with the back of his hand and staggered to his feet.

Rushing through his morning routine, he changed into a fresh t-shirt before splashing ice water on his face and finger-combing his hair into an artful sweep, though in reality he didn't care at all what it looked like. After gulping at some mouthwash and stuffing his homework into his book bag he trotted downstairs to the garage, grabbing an apple from the kitchen on his way. His bike was in the back, shoved half-beneath his father's workbench where he had pushed it some summers ago, abandoning it in favor of his jeep, but he had high hopes that the thing would be in working order.

No such luck.

Cursing under his breath, Stiles examined the chain which had rusted solid, kicked at a flat tire.

Frickin' perfect.

Slamming the bike against the wall, he hit the button to raise the bay door and ducked underneath it, giving his jeep a forlorn look before taking off up the sidewalk. The day was cool and overcast, the heavy cloud bank swirling overhead promising rain in the near future. He could only hope it held off until he made it to school – he didn't fancy being soaked all day. Taking one last bite of his breakfast, he tossed his core into the ditch and briefly considered hitching a ride but kept his thumb down. It was only about a mile's walk to the school if he took a few shortcuts, and there was no way it wouldn't get back to his dad if he got picked up on the side of the road.

Of course, scaling the Patterson's fence and running through Jefferson Bailey's yard risked a trespassing charge and getting attacked by a herd of pet ducks…

Decisions, decisions.

As it was, he almost landed in the deep end of an underground swimming pool trying to skirt a mallard that was after his ankles. He managed to keep his balance and avoid a bath but he received a pretty nasty bite through his jeans.

By the time he got to the school he wasn't walking anymore, he was _trudging_, his textbooks heavy on his back and his attitude dark. He was pissed that he'd had to walk, angry with his father for taking his keys, angry with himself for not toeing the line carefully enough to avoid such a serious consequence, angry at the damned sky. It had started sprinkling when he was still a quarter mile away and he was feeling a little bit damp, a little bit chafed, and it had done nothing to improve his mood. As he headed towards the front doors of Beacon Hills High, he caught sight of Scott chaining his bike to the rack, his head bent over the lock. Wandering in his direction, he had to leap away from the curb as a silver porsche came screaming into the space near his feet, threatening him with a pair of broken legs.

Stiles sneered as Jackson Whittemore exited the car, a smug little grin curling over his face.

"Thumbing it Stilinski?" he jeered, eyes hidden behind an expensive pair of sunglasses. "What's the matter; that baby blue piece of shit finally crap out on you?"

"Fuck off Jack-Ass," Stiles snarled, breaking his personal rule where Jackson was concerned and actually engaging. Usually he just ignored him and the jerk would eventually wander off, but this morning he was in no mood.

And besides, he was the only one allowed to make fun of the jeep.

_He _did it with love.

"Touchy are we?" the other boy taunted.

"Leave him alone Jackson," Scott's voice sounded from behind him.

Stiles rolled his eyes. He could take care of himself – he didn't need Scott protecting him anymore. It just got the other boy entangled in problems he couldn't handle, and it made Stiles feel stifled, trapped.

Something he was feeling intently today.

Jackson had opened his mouth with no doubt was a scathing response, but a group of jocks near the locker room exit hailed him and he left for bigger and better things, tossing an acidic sneer over his shoulder as a parting gift. Stiles scowled right back, his own expression colored with the dark chill of hatred, but Scott's hand clapping his shoulder pulled his attention away. Punching his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes and lit up, sucking down a quick smoke before crushing out his but on the sidewalk. Scott waited silently the whole time, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, but he didn't say anything, even when Stiles ran his thumb along the edge of his lower lip and started inside.

Together they traipsed down the hallway, stopping at their lockers to stash their bags and grab notebooks and well-chewed pens. Scott seemed to sense Stiles' attitude because he kept shooting him wary looks, the other boy's whole body tense beside him where he rolled along at an easy predator's lope. He was prowling now, projecting the self-centered self-confidence that he'd cultivated carefully after discovering that it kept other people away. At the end of the hall, just before they parted, Stiles for his advanced mathematics and Scott for his remedial Spanish, his friend grabbed on to his wrist and pulled him back, finally working up the courage to open his mouth.

"Are you ok?" he asked, and that was all.

Because they were friends and it was enough, the most basic question addressing all the nuances of what felt wrong between them.

Or at least it should have been.

It was care, and concern, and once again he was made horribly uncomfortable by one of the two people closest to him. He pushed others out for a reason, because if he let them in he started to feel that care and concern himself again, instead of the anger or numbness that he normally clung to. It made him weak, vulnerable to the crushing emotional pain that had once consumed him, and that he couldn't handle.

So he made himself the iceman, cold and hard and unapproachable.

He made himself safe.

"I'm fine," he lied before shrugging his friend off and walking away down the hall, calling back over his shoulder. "I'll see you at lunch."

But that was a lie too.

**XXX**

The afternoon sucked, especially sixth period chemistry. That was the class Stiles usually skipped, but the rain had finally picked up to a real downpour and he was almost too jittery to want to cut. He knew he would just end up pacing back and forth beneath the bleachers and chain smoking through a whole pack of cigarettes if he did. The nausea rolling round in his stomach since he hidden out in the library during lunch had escalated sharply at the thought of lighting up, so he'd grabbed his homework out of his locker and slouched into class seconds before the bell rang, curling in on himself behind his lab table in the hopes of going unseen.

Of course, that hadn't flown. Whatever problem Harris had with him had only gotten worse in the past few years despite the fact that Stiles managed to maintain a perfect A in his class. The dude was a real prick though, going so far as to pair him with Greenburg for the day's lab, a kid who really should've been in remedial science, not advanced chem. On top of that, Lydia Martin had been sending him flirtatious little looks all throughout their experiment, smiling at him coquettishly from the corner of her mouth. The old Stiles would have melted under the attention – he had been in love with the strawberry blonde goddess since the third grade – but the new Stiles was disgusted. The girl of his dreams hadn't spared him a second glance before his dark turn-around, and even now she was still in a relationship with Jackson. Her attempted infidelity and her obvious attraction to his new bad-boy image made him feel positively sick.

An hour later, he found himself with ink all over his homework, a minor chemical burn on the back of his wrist, one tri-folded note signed with a heart and a curving L that he'd promptly pitched into the trashcan, and the threat of a week's worth detention hovering over his head. None of it had served to make him feel any better; his skin was hot and tight and hyper-sensitive, and his jaw was aching from all the grinding his teeth had done over the course of the lesson. He could feel his heart pounding against the wall of his chest, his pulse racing, and he wanted nothing more than to pummel someone with his three-inch-thick chem book, Greenburg if at all possible. He recognized the symptoms of his Adderall withdrawal coupled with a furious anger that had been brewing in him all day, and as soon as the bell rang he was slamming out the door, striding down the hallway to grab his bag and head towards the locker room, thanking God for the minor outlet he would find in a few hours practice.

Technically it wasn't a school-sanctioned activity yet. Official try-outs weren't for three weeks, but all the players from the previous year practiced for two hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after school in order to keep in shape. They were allowed to use the field and the equipment, but technically the coach wasn't supposed to be involved. Finstock was a crafty bastard though, and a little nuts to boot, so it wasn't unusual at all for him to do his jogging around the edges of the green during their workouts, a megaphone dangling from his wrist. That he occasionally shouted out criticisms and curses went unremarked upon. Stiles himself was often on the receiving end of the bullhorn - he had never been considered good enough to actually play in a game, instead serving as a safety, a back-up man. If too many players got removed from the game, either through fouls or injury, he was there on the bench to step in.

That had yet to happen.

Still, he continued to show up to every practice, sticking close to Scott since the only other guy on the team that he could stand was Danny. Everybody loved Danny. Unfortunately he was close friends with Jackson, which diminished his appeal in Stiles' mind. Typically he'd wait for his best friend before heading out to the field, but today he was pissed and he knew it. Everything building up all day, anger and irritation being compounded into a hard, hot ball in his chest – he wasn't in the mood to deal with Scott's puppy-like exuberance. Hell, he might not even talk to anyone for the whole of practice. He was unimportant; he could get away with that. Changing quickly into his pads and practice jersey, he grabbed his crosse from his locker and headed out to the pitch.

Practice began with five laps around the field, but since Stiles was the first one out he had the opportunity to cheat. Tossing his stick onto the bleachers he began a steady jog around the white lines of the pitch, completing two before the rest of the team arrived on the field. Scott quickly fell in at his side but Stiles only stuck around for one more lap, finishing with three and flopping onto his butt to stretch out his legs with the other players finished their own run. Reaching for his toes, he leaned down until he was bent double, his face pressed into his knee as he breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass, relishing in the pain of the pull on his muscles, the pop of decompressing disks in his spine.

He was done by the time the other boys joined him, some swigging from water bottles before starting their own warm-up. Climbing to his feet, he grabbed his crosse and gave it a twirl, found the familiar weight and swing of it. Finstock had just arrived in his black Addidas track suit, starting his awkward half jog that threatened to trip him up as he kept his eyes on the field instead of his feet. Stiles rolled his eyes, scooped up a ball from the five gallon bucket someone had dropped near the sidelines, and headed out onto the pitch, taking his position near the back goal.

Five minutes later, Jackson had tugged on a scrimmage jersey and chosen his team, pushing everyone into position like a damned film director, complete with overly-dramatic bitching. This essentially meant that it was first stringers versus the second lineup and the benchwarmers; it was no surprise which team usually won. Naturally he had chosen Danny to defend his goal, and Stiles tossed him the ball as he passed, heading down to the other end of the field. Normally Jackson took the position as striker, taking the toss-up and coming down the pitch to score on Greenburg, whom he put in the opposite goal more as punishment than to make his own job easier, but today Finstock had different plans for him and barked out a position's switch through his megaphone. Apparently their holier-than-thou captain needed to work on his blocking.

So that was how Stiles ended up at the tail end of a line, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a pent up anger humming through his muscles. He'd needed this practice, was counting on it to burn through some of his frustrations, and instead he'd been relegated to the back of the pack, forced to stand still, to wait. One by one the players filed forward to catch the ball, rush Jackson, and, if they were successful, get around him to score. Only one or two had managed it, and much to Stiles' irritation Jackson was keeping up a running commentary of derogatory remarks and jeers. He tried to tune it out but that only left him to ruminate on everything else that had gone wrong that day, rubbing at the bite on his ankle with the opposite sneaker. Scott was in front of him and kept tossing him glances over his shoulder, no doubt wondering why Sties had ditched him at lunch, but he just stared back stone-faced, watching with a heavier and heavier weight in his chest as Jackson took out one player after another.

By the time Stiles hit the front of the line he felt ready to break, ready to shatter apart unless he got to hit something, and as he watched Scott got hip checked to the ground in front of him, he found his target. Jackson scooped up the ball that had gone rolling away down the pitch where Scott had dropped it, turning on Stiles with a wicked grin and whipping it at his head as hard as he could. Made of solid rubber, had it connected with his face as it was intended to he probably would've wound up with a fractured jaw. Luckily for him, the adrenaline pounding in his veins had his stick flashing up to catch it and saving himself the bruise, but even better it put a lock of shock onto Jackson's face that was positively priceless, even if he quickly covered it. Looking down at his cleats to hide a smirk, he shifted from foot to foot, loosened himself up by juggling his stick between his hands.

"Scared Stilinski?" Jackson taunted, and Stiles lifted his head just enough to glare at him from narrowed eyes. "God, you're such a poser," the other boy hissed through his facemask. "You fake this bad boy shit to get attention but we both know better don't we? You're still just a benchwar…

He didn't get to finish the sentence, because Stiles was smashing into him like a battering ram, ducking low to bring his shoulder up into Jackson's chest and slamming him down onto the earth with a bone-jarring thud. A stunned silence fell over the field, the only sound a choking gasp that rattled from the boy laid out on the pitch, clutching at his ribs with his left arm. His shoulder was screaming at him but Stiles reveled in the pain, let his anger channel through the ache instead of howling his rage at the sky like a wolf. Sneering down at Jackson who was rolling in the grass and hissing about broken ribs, he stepped calmly over him and flung his ball into the net, sailing it easily over Danny's shoulder as the goalie stepped out of the box and hurried to help his friend up.

"Bilinski!"

Stiles made a snarling, feral sort of sound under his breath, turning towards the bark of the bullhorn that had sounded a lot closer to his ear than the edge of the field should allow. Turning round, he found Finstock only yards away and striding towards him, an unreadable look on his face.

Shit.

He'd just taken out his coach's best player.

But damn had it felt good


	6. Chapter 6

By the time he arrived at the clinic, Stiles was wheezing and out of breath, and only a small part of it was due to the pain that still echoed in the joint of his shoulder as he ran. He was going to be black and blue tomorrow, but right now the needles in his lungs were the far more prominent ache.

Holy God, he should be able to do this.

The veterinary office really wasn't all that far from the high school, about halfway between the lacrosse pitch and his own front door if he cut across the train tracks behind the Pump-n-Pay, but apparently he was more out of shape than he'd realized. A grinning, exuberant Scott had held him up after practice and so he'd had to hit a pretty hard pace, wanting to spend as much time as possible at the vet's before heading back to meet his curfew, and the muscles in his calves and thighs were burning with it.

Hell, maybe Finstock had been right, forcing them all onto the cross country team through the spring and summer.

Of course, he'd mostly cheated... cut corners and wandered miraculously in to the finish line ahead of everyone else as if from nowhere, or simply chose not to show to practice at all.

Still, as he pushed through the office door to the tune of the small brass bell ringing overhead, he owned up to the fact that he really needed to work on his endurance – something no adolescent male ever wanted to cop to. Shit, the coach had just told him as much, in front of the whole damned team once he'd managed to get Jackson up and shuffling off of the field, an arm each slung over Danny and Greenburg's shoulders as he spat garbled curses in Stiles' direction about restraining orders and lawyer fathers. Oddly enough, instead of being upset that Stiles had taken out one of his best players Finstock had been strangely impressed, clapping Stiles on his bad shoulder with a half-maniacal glint in his dark eyes.

'_Damn Bilinkski. That was a great tackle. If you were a little faster you might actually play once in a while. Well that and being able to actually make a shot... your aim sucks._'

Shaking the words from his mind, the half-baked, unrealistic prospect, Stiles raked his sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead and stepped up to the heavy wooden counter that separated the empty lobby from the back of the clinic, leaning far over it to look for the vet.

"Doctor Deaton?" he called loudly, craning his neck to look through the open doorway. "Hello?!"

"Mr. Stilinski."

The vet appeared around the corner silently and fluidly, as though his serviceable sneakers didn't even come into contact with the slick tile floor. His tone was flat and smooth as it always was, and Stiles sometimes had to wonder whether or not the man ever felt anything at all. Today there was something almost guarded about the sound of his voice, something around his dark eyes that suggested some small reservation, and fear lanced through Stiles' belly like a bolt of lightning.

"Is he…" he choked thickly around the sudden knot in his throat.

"Alive," the vet replied honestly, drying his hands thoroughly on a small hand towel.

"But?" he demanded, and this time it was anger that flashed over him like hot water. He wasn't interested in words games or vague, indirect answers. There was literally a life at stake, and it made him sick to think that he might be partially responsible for ending it.

Deaton gave him no response, only stood there in his white lab coat, looking him up and down with intense contemplation before reaching out with one hand and swinging the heavy wooden gate open, waiting until Stiles had slipped behind the counter before leading him back towards the kennels in the rear of the building. Stiles felt a chill tickle down over his shoulder blades as he followed the vet deeper into the clinic, the industrial air conditioning rapidly cooling the sweat that still clung to his temples, and it gave him the eerie feeling that there was something he was missing about all this. Tugging the edges of his leather jacket tight around him, he scowled at Deaton's retreating form before quickly schooling his face into a blank mask as the vet turned to look at him over his shoulder.

"Quietly," he warned as they approached the bank of kennels, gesturing Stiles down the row to the very last. "He's not doing as well as I'd hoped, and I believe he's gone into a form of shock."

Stiles, who couldn't seem to find his tongue, raised an eyebrow in the vet's direction but he merely made a small movement with his hand that sent Stiles ahead of him, leaning back against some shelving as he crossed his arms. He was watching him carefully with that alert, all-seeing gaze and Stiles couldn't help but feel that he was being judged in his every movement, his every response. Swallowing, he pushed away the shudder that threated to roll over him under Deaton's stare and continued the last few steps down the line, finally coming to the kennel at the end of the row where he immediately sank to his knees, leaning forward to grip the wire diamonds of the gate tightly between his fingers.

He was so still, the dog.

Like he wasn't really there at all, like he'd just gone and left his body behind.

Deaton had assured him that the animal was alive, that he had made it through the night, but Stiles would have called him a liar if it weren't for the minute, fully-body trembles that occasionally wracked his big body, the shallow, too-fast rise and fall of his rib cage, barely perceptible to Stiles' eyes. His dark, tangled fur shone under the kennel lights and Stiles could see where it was matted and clotted with blood and mud and filth, the stitches in his ear and abdomen stark against the pale skin where his hair had been shaved away. The heavy brace was still strapped tightly to one foreleg, kicked out in front of his body where he lay flat-out on his side, exactly the same position he'd been left in the night before atop Stiles' lacrosse blanket, but there was an IV in the opposite leg now, the thin tube trailing up to a bag full of clear fluid hanging on the gate.

"Saline," the vet said quietly behind him, and Stiles shifted to sit Indian style, the cement cold beneath him as he slung his bookbag onto the ground at his side.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "He's worse. He's worse, he wasn't like this…"

"Yes, I'm rather surprised myself," Deaton murmured. "In addition to the laceration on his abdomen and the broken leg, he'd severely dehydrated, hence the IV. Malnourished too. I fear that drip is all that's keeping him alive. For now anyway."

"For now? Isn't there anything else you can do?" Stiles demanded. "I mean, is… is he in pain?"

Deaton rolled off the shelving unit and stepped to Stiles' side, staring down at his patient with an intense, calculating eye.

"I don't believe so, no," he replied. "If he is in shock, as I imagine is the case, he isn't feeling much of anything. He hasn't moved, hasn't woken since we brought him in last night. For now, he's as comfortable as I can make him. But this is something you must understand Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles jerked, breaking his gaze away from the beautiful, broken animal in front of him and turned it upward, to the adult who was looking down at him with something like grim determination tempered with a morbid curiosity.

"It is the unfortunate truth of this world that I've seen this kind of thing before," the vet began slowly, "The kind of life he's led, the things I believe he'd been made to experience… those things leave thier mark. They manifest themselves - sometimes in aggression, sometimes in fear. And oftentimes the… animal, so abused for so long… oftentimes they're unable to return to the life they led before. Unable to find themselves again. And they give up."

"You mean they lose the will to live?" he asked quietly, tears abruptly threatening to fall, and the vet nodded.

"Yes. And sometimes it's for the best. For everyone."

"That's not fair!" Stiles snarled, familiar anger flooding his chest. "It wasn't his fault, he didn't…" Swallowing hard, he turned away from the vet, back to the dog who was lying still as death in the kennel. "He didn't deserve that life. He… he survived it. Even if he had to get hard and mean to do it, he _survived it_. He's… got a chance now though, doesn't he? I mean, a chance at a real life? Why would he give up now, now that he finally got away, finally has a chance…"

"Not everyone recognizes a chance when they see it, Mr. Stilinski."

A sneer twisted Stiles' face as he got the sudden impression that Deaton wasn't talking about the dog anymore, but when he turned to glare at the vet the man had already gone, disappearing into the shelves as he headed back towards the front of the clinic and left Stiles alone with his emotions.

"Creep," Stiles muttered, shifting so that he could sit with one shoulder leaning against the gate, looking into the kennel where the dog lay still, doing nothing more than breathing, in and out, silent, slow…

Stiles sighed.

He supposed he could see the parallels, even if he didn't want to.

Still, wasn't any of the man's business; he was a vet, not a shrink. All Stiles wanted was for him to fix the dog, just fix him. It would feel too terrible, too wrong if he survived everything he'd been through only to give up the ghost now, when he was so close to a good and normal life. Because he seemed like a good dog – although to be fair most were – and if it were up to Stiles he would live out the rest of his life in the lap of luxury; big, soft dog beds, meaty treats, and all the sticks he could fetch.

That was what he deserved.

Call it a reward for making it through all the hell he'd traversed and not taking Stiles' hand off that first time he'd reached out to him.

"Don't give up yet buddy," Stiles murmured quietly, and it might have been his imagination but he thought he saw the tattered remains of the dog's ear flick in his direction. "It's not all bad out here. Don't give up yet."

**XXX**

When the Sheriff walked in the front door at six twenty-five he was shocked beyond all imagining to hear someone clattering around in the kitchen off the hall. His hand went automatically to his sidearm, a standard-issue nine millimeter Glock that he'd carried for years, sure that there was an intruder in the house until a muffled curse told him otherwise, relief flooding his system even as surprise did the same. He hadn't ever believed that his son would actually follow the curfew he'd imposed, hadn't believed that he would submit to that show of authority, but the Jeep hadn't moved from the driveway even though he knew his son could easily hotwire the thing, and here he was, slamming around in the cupboards near the fridge like it was normal for him to be in before midnight.

"Dammit," he cursed, flinching when he leaned up on his toes to grab down a box of Lucky Charms he'd stuffed towards the back of the cabinet. Tapping at the box with his fingertips, he just managed to snag it and pull it off the edge of the shelf, catching it neatly on its way towards the floor even as his left arm snapped in towards his rib cage, curling around his body as his breath hissed between his teeth.

"Things get a little rough at practice today?" he asked, masking his concern with a carefully casual tone even as he ran his eyes over his son's long, lean limbs. If there was one thing he knew the kid hated it was concern.

Stiles made a strangling sort of sound, jumping a little before he reigned in his reaction and closed himself off again, an act that John had become horribly good at recognizing.

"Not really," he muttered, pushing the box onto the counter and burying himself in the refrigerator, even though the milk was within easy reach on the top shelf. "Just… hit that perfect angle you know?" Re-emerging, he busied himself in pouring out a bowl of the sugary cereal, careful not to meet John's eyes when he sat down on a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar. "Coach said…"

John was sure that his shock showed on his face as his son froze, milk halfway capped as he moved to shove it back into the fridge. It was his turn to be surprised, because he was sure that Stiles had been about to _talk_ to him, about to _share_ something, and that hadn't happened in a long time.

"What?" he urged gently, again taking great care not to sound too eager, too interested.

"Um, nothing," Stiles muttered, picking up his bowl and grabbing a spoon out of the drawer. "It's… not important."

Turning to leave the kitchen, he paused momentarily, looking back, not at him, but in his direction, and that was something. Reaching out, he pushed the cereal box across the counter towards him before stuffing his spoon into his mouth and trotting up the stairs. For a long time John remained where he was, staring after him a bit dumbfounded-ly as his brain tried to process what had just happened. He'd seen none of the anger in his son that he'd seen the night before, none of the bitter fury. It pained him that Stiles had all but cut him out of his life, worse now even than the pain of losing his wife, but tonight, just for a minute, he'd felt like maybe there might be some hope.

The last five minutes were the calmest they'd had, the longest conversation they'd shared in a long time. Stiles had come home on time, made a curfew even, absent most of the violently black raincloud that usually accompanied him, and that in itself was throwing him for a loop, but they'd _talked_. Just a handful of sentences, disjointed and almost clinical, but it was something. Something that said maybe, just maybe, they could drag themselves back to something better.

Whether the cereal was a peace offering or not he didn't know.


	7. Chapter 7

Time didn't have much meaning for him anymore.

It ebbed and flowed like water all around him, his body floating on the current of it in a drugged, foggy haze. Occasionally he would be wracked with painful trembles, his muscles convulsing sharply as sparks of pain fired across his nerve endings. He was unable to stop the high-pitched, agonized whines that rattled from his bruised throat, shivering beneath the chill that seemed to soak through his thick fur and down into his bones. When he did manage to drift half-way out of consciousness into a smoky haze of sleep he was plagued by shadows that popped and flickered like firelight, raising the hair along his spine as his instincts screamed at him to run, the broken shards of bone in his leg grating viciously as he tried wildly to get away despite his inability to move, to control his limbs or the demons conjured up by his poisoned mind.

It was the fear that would wake him.

The hot, surging rush of adrenaline, the ghosts of sounds and smells from another life.

He couldn't ever remember feeling so vulnerable; injured, unable to move, the mistletoe working its way sluggishly out of his system, burning like acid through his veins. The pits had been vicious, bloody and violent, but at least there he could see his opponent coming, there he could fight back. Here he was prey.

Occasionally a figure would come and go, sometimes there and sometimes not, shadowy and looming above him and each time he flinched away from it, an injured animal's need to hide itself away. The voice that rumbled in the air around him was low and flat and calm, murmuring words he didn't understand, words that really didn't matter to him in his condition. He couldn't seem to think in a straight line, couldn't control his scattered instincts, but above all it was fear that ruled, and all he could do was lie there and feel it.

Hours, days, weeks, he didn't know.

It was all the same, and it was all pain and fear.

All except _him_.

The boy had appeared above him on a fresh wave of agony, kneeling over him in the dark and sheltering him for just a moment from the pouring rain. He had been almost wild with the ache of it, almost mad with the flinching terror that human touch had become, but then a gentle hand had stroked down his side and over his flank, a feather-light brush of fingers ghosting over his fur and that fear had inexplicably calmed. It was as though his strength had given out in that moment, the mad rush of water-weak power and desperation that had driven him up and out of the pits dissolving. He'd felt his broken body being lifted up in arms, promises murmured overhead that he hadn't dared believe, but he'd had nothing left to give and so he'd merely given in, collapsing beneath the weight of the drugs, the hurt, and the exhaustion.

Still though, even beneath all of that, his senses hazy and dulled to almost nothing, he could still feel _him_.

The boy's scent was anarchy in his nose, heavy enough to distract him from the throb of his crushed leg and the deep, cutting pang of the slash in his tender belly. It was frenetic, changing, sharp with anxiety and guilt, and layered over it was the light but lingering trace of smoke. It made something deep inside of him quake with a half subconscious warning and he tried desperately to follow it, to follow its spiking nuances in a useless bid to prepare himself, protect himself.

It should have been the final horror.

Should have tipped him over the edge into utter panic.

It was only the pained sorrow of it that stopped him from summoning the very last dregs of his energy and lashing out, a miserable sincerity that smelled like a storm between the trees, all natural chaos and crashing thunder over cool, clean rain and damp earth.

Somehow knowing that deep down this boy was as hurt and afraid as he was soothed the terror in him.

He had drifted in and out of consciousness after that, every bump and turn and crank of the vehicle beneath him intensifying the pain of his injuries and keeping him from completely blacking out. The boy's scent had lingered in the air around him but was unable to pierce through the dark fog that was slowly dragging him under. A sharp stop and a slam had tugged him back up again, and then someone else was there, someone who had simmered dully with tamped down power and knowledge and the fear had surged through him again, a chill swelling his chest until he felt his body being lifted into a sling and swaying gently as he was carried from the rain into a cold, enclosed space that was too bright and too sterile and sent a shiver down his spine.

He hadn't known where he was or whose hands had roamed over his body then, knew only that they were suddenly bringing him more pain, pressing against the gash in his belly, driving needles through his tattered ear, manipulating his crushed legs in ways that it didn't want to go, but pain was something he'd been dealt by human hands for years, and he knew better than to react. To lash out only made it worse, earning him heavy beatings and starvation for days after, and so he'd lain as still as possible, waiting for the torture to end despite being unable to stop the agonized whines escaping him. Continuous words of apology and reassurance had been aimed in his direction, hazily working their way into his mind but he hadn't trusted them.

Hadn't relaxed.

Overcome with anxiety, he'd begun to run his tongue out over his nose again and again, but then another miserable, almost-silent apology had settled over him like a fine sheet, that sorrowful, stormy scent draping over his shoulders as a hand ghosted down his spine. Forcing his eyes open, he had looked back at the source of surprising comfort and calm, his mind just able to understand the silhouette of a tall, lanky young man with huge, amber-colored eyes. There was both innocence and terrible experience in those eyes, and although he didn't know why, that had resonated with him. Huffing a sigh, he had given in to the exhaustion that had weighed him down to the earth, made him feel heavy and muzzy, given in to the strange calm he'd felt in the young man's presence.

He didn't remember much after that.

He knew he'd been moved, down into the little kennel he still laid in which should have felt like a cage, but it was clean and dry and warm, and even though the wire gate was latched closed the top was open, and there was no frightened yelping or angry snarls surrounding him as there had been in the pits. Still, the walls boxed him in, shrinking drastically when eventually the boy had gone, though the man he now knew to be a vet came and went with a frequency that was grating, words pattering down around him like rain that he didn't care to think about, words that made his chest ache when he tried to listen.

So he didn't.

Instead, he let himself shut down.

He didn't know if he had a death wish. If he just wanted it to end. It didn't seem that way, when he had tried so hard, gone through so much to get out, to get away. It was the unknown that ate at him as he lay in the bottom of the kennel, as the vet worked over him silently and steadily, pumping him full of fluids and keeping up that constant, steady stream of low litanies he couldn't bring himself to care about. The unknown, not knowing where he was or where he was going, knowing that something wasn't right but not knowing _what_. All he wanted was to sleep, but a dull, nagging unease kept him from fully letting go.

Until he came back.

He'd collapsed in a sprawl of tangled limbs and pounding heartbeat against the gate of the kennel, his scent strong and intense in his nose, overlaid with those of rain and fresh-cut grass and clean, male sweat. There was just a tinge of fear to him, to the sound and smell of him, and caused his own adrenaline to surge, his breathing to come rapid fire but then the boy had settled, at least for a time. As he lay there basking in the strange, unnatural calm his presence brought he could hear a quick, quiet conversation taking place above him that rapidly began to decline. The boy's scent spiked with anger, sorrow, indignation, and while he didn't understand the cause he knew that it stemmed from the other man, the one who's entire being tingled with secrets and awareness. A primal urge had risen up in him, swelling his chest with the need to protect, and that was something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Something he very much didn't like.

It was a massive effort and a painful one to try to shut him out again. Pure survival instinct, he tried desperately to grab on to his control, to let go of the reactions he was having to this stranger who so affected him. It wasn't right, wasn't safe, the way the boy made him feel, and his instincts snarled at him to pull back from it. Trust had only ever earned him extremes of pain.

"Don't give up yet buddy. It's not all bad out here."

The plea was uttered with such heartfelt sincerity that he couldn't block it out, couldn't stop himself from listening for the skip, the fault in the steady beat of his heart that labeled his words a lie.

It wasn't there.

He'd gone after that but those words had lingered, blanketing him with wholehearted promise even though they shouldn't have. He had shuddered beneath the weight of them, wished they would dissolve, until he couldn't hold up his walls anymore and he fell into blackness, down and down and down into sleep where the wild, storm-winds smell of the boy and his tentative reassurances of a different life followed him under. Specters of another world lingered at the edges of his dreams, memories of faces and sounds he couldn't name but that called to him with the warm familiarity of a home he knew he no longer had. An aching sadness colored his drugged mind's imaginings a deep, dark blue that swirled into black and made his chest ache with loss, but still the words drove through, a knife to bone that pulled him up and out of it again, back into the world at the bottom of the kennel with the sounds and smells of other dogs and cats helped to ground him to a greater sense of reality.

He was here, and he'd survived, far more than he knew.

And he was… better.

Even if it was only a little bit.

He was better.

His chest felt lighter, not so tight, and the hours, days, weeks he'd been asleep seemed to have loosened something in him so that he could actually breathe again. His body was still terribly battered and broken, poison still humming in his blood, but there was a little bit of taught iron in his muscles that wasn't there before, the smallest spark of energy that had him rolling slowly and painfully up onto his stomach so that he could blink and stare muzzily through the gate at the concrete floors and metal shelving in the back of the little clinic. His head was still heavy, his thoughts thick and slow, but he didn't feel quite so cold anymore and while he knew that his senses were still nowhere close to their natural state, his nose was quivering with interest as he followed the thin thread of a familiar scent almost unconsciously.

He wasn't there.

He knew that.

The scent wasn't strong enough, the heartbeat he'd almost memorized wasn't pounding in his ears, beating alongside his own.

But he could still smell him, the phantom scent of him, lingering as it had in his dreams…

Dropping his nose to the cement between his front legs like it had been snapped there with a magnet, he pressed it hard to the floor and snuffled around, rubbing his muzzle against the thickly woven blanket beneath him. The smells came bursting up out of it towards him like sunshine, all green grass and crisp fall nights, mud and clean male sweat, the barest trace of smoke.

All the things that were _him_.

Grabbing the blanket in his mouth, he dragged it in towards himself and burrowed down into the center of it, fluffing himself a little nest into which he could disappear.

* * *

**Hey guys! Review pretty please! I love this little baby story; I feel protective and nurturing of it like it's a fluffy little wolf cub! Awww. **


	8. Chapter 8

The next day Stiles trudged into the clinic like his shoes were made of concrete, his shoulders slouched beneath the weight of his world. He'd gotten up extra early in order to get his bike chain fixed up, so his trip to school had been a little less harrowing than the morning before, but the rest of the day had been positively exhausting. A bruised Jackson had lingered near the front doors of the school, watching him with one arm in a sling and murder in his eyes, and that hot glare had been enough to keep him on high alert throughout the afternoon, his muscles tensed and ready for fight or flight from the lacrosse captain and his lackeys every time he turned a corner. Only Danny had offered him any reassurance, shooting him a melancholy sort of smile, but Stiles was no fool. He spent the day avoiding the bathrooms and deserted hallways, his knee bouncing constantly beneath his desk.

Practice had been even worse because there he couldn't avoid the retribution he'd known was coming. In a way he supposed it was good to get it over with, but that didn't mean he hadn't try his damnedest to get off light. The coach had been impressed with some of his footwork, not realizing that it was born from desperation, but he hadn't been fast enough to avoid every tackle that came his way. He'd been downed again and again, his shoulder instantly flaring up and all of the rest of him battered half to bloody. Scott did his best to help but all he could really do was pick up the ball when Stiles lost it and wheeze his way towards the goal to while the rest of the team was either pummeling his friend or watching the show. In the end Stiles' team won the scrimmage, but he hardly thought his sacrifice worth the victory.

He hadn't bothered with the showers, none too eager to spend any more time in the locker room than was absolutely necessary, so after stashing his gear he'd grabbed his clothes and his book bag and headed straight for the parking lot, only pausing to unlock his bike from the rack. He'd meant to wait for Scott this time, who worked for Dr. Deaton three days a week, but he hadn't been brave enough – or stupid enough – to linger while his friends scrubbed off the sweat and mud of the pitch. Knowing he would catch up eventually, he high-tailed it for the clinic, standing on his pedals and turning his face into the breeze as he rode.

Now, standing in front of the counter arguing with Deaton's ancient secretary, Stiles felt an enormous wave of exhaustion come over him, enough that he finally gave up and crashed down into a hard plastic chair next to a woman with a small molting parrot on her shoulder. The bird watched him interestedly with beady little eyes, bobbing its head to inaudible music, and Stiles had to resist the urge to stick his tongue out at it. Luckily for him the vet emerged from the back a moment later, speaking quietly with a man and his small son leading a rabbit on a leash and harness.

"Mr. Stilinski," he nodded, his tone suggesting that he was beginning to lose patience with Stiles' appearances in his office. Ushering the rabbit and its owners out the door Deaton made a short gesture that waved Stiles past the low wooden counter.

"Hey!" the woman with the parrot snapped as Stiles climbed to his feet. "We were here first!"

"This young man has no appointment doctor," the secretary added nastily, but Deaton only offered her a placating smile.

"I'll be with you in just one moment, Ms. Stevens," he promised the angry bird-mom, who was tapping her foot harshly against the tile floor. "I merely need to show this young man through to the back and I'll see to Mr. Feathers."

Stiles practically snorted at the ridiculous name, but managed to choke it back. Glaring angrily, Ms. Stevens crossed her arms over her chest and muttered something under her breath, too quiet to hear, but to her blushing embarrassment the raggedy bird on her shoulder chose to repeat it.

'_What a jerk_!'

This time Stiles did stick out his tongue. Ignoring the vet's scolding look, he let himself be ushered down the hallway, past the exam rooms and the surgery into the back where the kennels were housed, past a small terrier who danced and barked at the gate all the way to the end. He felt something in him lift a little as he reached the last cage, the world a little less dark when he found the dog lying on his belly instead of his side, not looking quite so dead as he used to. Still plugged in to the IV drip, he had pulled Stiles' lacrosse blanket into a fluffy little bed and was curled up in the middle of it, his muzzle buried in the folds of the fabric, and as Stiles dropped his bag to the floor and sank down to sit in front of the kennel door, his blue eyes opened slowly and fixed him with a calm, steady look that seemed curiously quiet for a dog so sorely used by people.

"He's awake," Stiles said quietly, but his smile was shining through the words.

"Yes," Deaton replied, "He is doing a bit better. I have more hopes for his prospects than I did."

"He'll be ok then?"

Behind him Deaton made a small humming sound of agreement and Stiles felt the last of his tension bleed away.

"In time," the vet said lightly. "As you can see, he's already starting to come around. I hope to have him eating again by the end of the week."

"What happens then?" Stiles asked carefully, but he got no answer, and when he turned around the vet had disappeared again, no doubt off to see the irascible Mr. Feathers.

Turning his attention back to the dog, Stiles leaned in towards the fence, linking his fingers through the wire as he had before. The dog laid his ears back as he shifted forward but it was a soft whine that escaped his chest, not a snarl. It was a look of pleading and it almost broke Stiles heart, speculating as to what the broken animal before him was begging for.

He could only hope it wasn't mercy.

Making up his mind, he leaned forward on his knees and flipped the latch of the gate, swinging it open and crawling just inside the edge of the kennel, turning sideways so that he was leaning back against the wall and facing the dog who had jerked back just a little bit, his body trembling enough that Stiles could actually see it. Holding perfectly still, he waited silently until the animal's shaking had subsided, attentive to its every reaction. It was watching him carefully, its ears still flat against its skull, but its nose had begun to quiver curiously in his direction and he was starting to make small, quiet whimpering sounds that suggested what he wanted was entirely at odds with what his instincts were telling him.

Given that fact, Stiles was perfectly content to wait for him to make the first move.

He was sore enough - he didn't fancy adding a dog bite to his growing list of complaints.

It took a while.

He wasn't sure how long, really, but it seemed like forever.

The dog watched him warily the whole time, but it seemed to be his nose that finally convinced him Stiles was safe, because it inched closer and closer despite all the nervous looks and warning glares. Wet and quivering, it snuffled along his ankles and shins, a soft muzzle poking experimentally at his knee. Of course where the head went the body also followed, until he was doubled round entirely, his shoulders and forelegs pressed tight against the length of Stiles' leg. Twisting his ears back and forth, he looked at Stiles with some trepidation and anxiety, wobbling from side to side uncertainly until at last he draped his heavy head over Stiles' knee. Heaving a massive sigh, he collapsed across Stiles' lap as though he'd given up, unable to hold back anymore.

It was gut-wrenching, how hopeless that sigh sounded in his ears… like the dog was just waiting for punishment.

And how desperate could he be for contact, for comfort, that he would risk it despite the expected certainty of pain to follow?

Swallowing down the sour heat that had rolled up out of his stomach, Stiles clenched and relaxed his hands, fingers itching to reach out and soothe, to correct the impressions left on this beautiful creature's psyche.

Well, if he was brave enough to risk it so was Stiles.

Careful to keep his arm low he reached out slowly, trying not to flinch when blue eyes flashed open again, flaring that unnatural, Pacific Ice color the way they had that first night before dimming again, focusing in on the hand that crept almost imperceptibly closer, until suddenly Stiles' fingers were buried deep in the soft, thick ruff at the side of the dog's neck, easing up to stroke his velvet ears as gently as he could. The dog had frozen beneath his touch, paralyzed as he waited for pain to come, terror a dark shadow shifting in those wild blue eyes, so Stiles' gentled his stroking even more, just barely ghosting his hand along the fur that bristled along the dog's shoulders.

"Easy big guy," he murmured quietly, keeping his tone soft and light. "I'm not gonna hurt you. That's a good boy."

And those were the magic words, because the dog's ears flicked upright towards him, a long, high-pitched whine crashing from his chest as he pushed his head and chest forward into Stiles' legs, nudging muzzle into his hand as though demanding to hear it again.

Stiles was happy to comply.

"Good boy," he hummed, cupping the dog's chin in his palm and rubbing gently, retreating carefully from his teeth to resume stroking at his ears and rough. "You're all right."

A second later his heart was jumping into his throat as the dog surged forward, forcing himself to his feet and wobbling dangerously at his side, standing almost eye-to-eye with the young man from his position in the floor. It was painful, how much effort it took, how obviously hurt and exhausted the animal was, and his hands came up in a useless gesture of support, but before he could even think what to do to help ease him the dog had turned a circle twice, twisting nervously around his IV line before pushing in close to Stiles' side beneath his arm, crashing down again to lie pressed in close against his hip, dropping his head once again over Stiles' thigh. Sighing, he nuzzled against him, his eyes falling closed as his breathing even out, and after what seemed like only seconds he was asleep, his chest rising and falling smoothly and surely.

Shocked into stillness, Stiles stared down at the massive creature, momentarily unsure of what to do, but then he dropped his arm tentatively down to the animal's side, resting lightly all along the length of him, his fingers combing gently through the fur behind his ears. He'd been thinking it before, the idea flitting around vaguely in the back of his mind, but as he stared down at the dog sleeping at his side a smile spread over his face and he knew for sure.

He was bringing him home.

"Stiles?"

At the sound of Scott's voice the dog flinched violently, jerking back to cower behind Stiles' body as best he could, and he felt anger flair inside his chest at his friend's thoughtlessness. Gritting his teeth, he reigned in the strangely intense need to protect that had surged through him, putting out his hand to touch the dog gently on top of the head between his ears, humming a soft reassurance until the animal relaxed again, easing down against his side though he watched Scott with wary eyes.

"Is that him?" the other boy asked, hanging over the top of the wire gate that stood open to the side of the kennel. "The dog you hit?"

"_Yes_, Scott, the dog I hit," Stiles hissed, narrowing his eyes. "Thanks for the reminder."

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, looking properly shame-faced. "How's he doing?"

"I'm not sure. Your boss is kinda cryptic dude."

"Right? He told me to come check on you, but I don't think he wanted you in there…"

"What?" Stiles demanded, snapping to attention. "_Why_?"

"Well, I mean, he's a fighting dog right?" Scott asked, backing up a bit from Stiles' glare. "He might be…"

"Dangerous?" Stiles sneered, glancing down at the dog who was lying draped across his legs, pressing in to the gentle petting that he was still raining down over his neck and side. "Yeah. Real dangerous."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger man," Scott insisted, holding up his hands in surrender. "He looks ok to me." Reaching out, he turned the bag of clear fluid connected to the dog's IV. "He's just on saline, no meds, so he can't be doing too bad."

"He does look better," Stiles admitted, his eyes finding the long gash on the dog's belly, the neat stitched holding it closed. "I mean, I'm no vet but he's awake. Moving. That's gotta be a good sign right?"

"I'm no vet either," Scott reminded him, "But I'd say yeah. I think Deaton would tell you, if you shouldn't get your hopes up, you know? He knows how to… let people down easy, I guess. He doesn't like to lie to them."

Stiles humphed, unwilling to concede the point but hoping that Scott was right.

"He likes you."

"He shouldn't," Stiles muttered automatically, not really paying attention.

"Oh, you're not so bad."

"Thanks Scotty," Stiles snorted, "But that wasn't what I meant."

"I know," the floppy-haired boy replied with a crooked grin, as he turned to trip backwards up the hallway towards the front of the clinic. "But I thought you needed to hear it anyways."


	9. Chapter 9

Scott was right when he said that Deaton wouldn't like him sitting inside the kennel. The vet had startled when he first came around the corner to find him there - an astonishing display of actual human reaction - his gaze going dark and wary seconds later. His mouth had been grim as he gestured Stiles out, and the only reason he'd gone was because he'd needed to fit inside himself to check the dog, his hands light and fast as they tested the sutures in its abdomen and the paleness of his gums. Stiles had shuddered when the vet took the heavy black muzzle in his hand and peeled the lips back from huge, wicked teeth, but Deaton had kept up a low, dull murmur the whole time, explaining exactly what he was doing as it happened.

For his part the dog looked none too pleased with the painful poking and prodding, his ears pasted back flat against his skull, a rumble of warning rolling up out of his chest, but he kept his eyes on Stiles the whole time, and the horrible clash of trust and fear that he saw in them almost made him sick. He'd swallowed down the lump in his throat, stepped closer to hang over the wall of the kennel and murmur a word of reassurance, and was rewarded when the growling ceased immediately. Deaton cast him a sharp, speculative glare over his shoulder before rising to his full height, latching the kennel door and shooing Stiles down the hallway towards the front of the clinic. A pitiful, high-pitched whine chased after him and he almost stumbled, but the vet was right on his heels, herding him out like a sheepdog as Scott tossed him a quick goodbye and locking the door behind him.

He was a bit surprised that dusk was already starting to fall; he'd stayed longer than he'd meant to and he had to pedal furiously to make it home before his dad. Still, it gave him a good rhythm to follow, his mind spinning along just as fast as his feet, and the cool air in his face helped him think.

He knew what he wanted.

He wanted to bring that dog home.

He _needed_ to.

Needed to tuck him into a big, fluffy dog-bed and fatten him up on steak and soft, buttery eggs, give him toys and pats and tell him he was a good boy…

And all those things scared him.

He wasn't… he wasn't _nurturing_, didn't really care about others the way he should. The only two people he had any kind of a relationship with were his father and Scott, one marked by heat and anger, the other by cold distance, and neither were a model of success. He hadn't felt so fiercely protective in years, if he'd ever felt that at all, and he wasn't sure why it was happening now.

Some of it was guilt, yes, he could man up and admit to that, but the rest…

He felt an eerie connection with the animal that he was pretty sure would be better attributed to another human being. He just… seemed broken, in body and in spirit, and there were days, lots of them, that Stiles wasn't so certain he hadn't shattered himself.

He certainly felt shattered by the time he got home, his earlier pummeling on the lacrosse pitch coming back to haunt him with a vengeance, but his eagerness paid off and he made it home with time to spare. The cruiser was nowhere in sight as he tucked his bike inside the edge of the garage, blowing his jeep a kiss before heading into the house. He debated heading straight for homework - he had a quarterly exam coming up in Chemistry - but the bone-deep weariness in his joints, the dull throb of bruises forming warned him against that plan. Instead he kicked his book bag beneath the hall table and shot straight for the shower, shedding his clothes as soon as his bedroom door had swung shut behind him.

The hot water was heaven on his aching muscles, beating down on his shoulders and loosening up the knots at the back of his neck. He spent a quick five minutes scrubbing away the mud and blood, his skin pinking up under the rough treatment, but God did it feel good, and he was not ashamed to admit that he spent the next twenty just lingering under the rush of it, his eyes closed and his mind mostly empty as he breathed in the warm steam. When he couldn't condone the water-waste any longer he killed the tap with a metallic shriek, slinging a towel around his hips and stepping out in a cloud of Irish Springs, feeling better than he'd felt all day.

Bit of a revelation that, really, because if he got his way that dog was coming home with him, and he'd just decided that the first step in Operation Pamper the Pooch would be a nice hot bath.

And man, was that one of the worst names he'd ever come up with for anything or what?

Anyway, a bath first thing might not be the best idea. Better to let him get acclimated before he tried to drown him in the confined shower stall. A kiddie pool in the backyard might be a better idea too…

Toweling off, Stiles pulled on a pair of black sweats and a t-shirt, wrestling himself through the v-neck with more trouble than was acceptable for a guy his age. He was getting one step ahead of himself anyways - he needed to convince his father this would work before he needed to think about shampoo options. Trailing hesitantly down the stairs, he was surprised that the house was still and quiet, the driveway still empty save for his own car. Glancing at the clock he rubbed the heel of his palm against his breastbone, all his old nervousness resurfacing through years of parent-child strife when his dad failed to appear on time.

Angry or not, fighting or not, he was still a Sheriff.

Small town or not, things still went wrong.

The silence put a restlessness in him that he didn't like, made him want to click a pen or bounce his knee even though he'd caved and taken his Adderall that morning. It was _too_ quiet, _too_ still, and he knew that if he didn't freaking _do something_ he was going to start pacing and then it would all be over.

Nothing good ever followed the pacing.

Grabbing his book bag off the floor he headed into the kitchen, dug out his iPod and plugged into some Closure. He needed the drum beat of Look Out Below, the rhythm of Whatever Made You, and as soon as the music started up he could feel his anxiety smoothing out, pushed it into the movement of his body as it kept time with the band. Far too unsettled to sit with Chemistry, he rattled around in the cupboards looking for two deep simmering pots, set water to boiling and then hunted through the fridge for salvageable tomatoes, eventually having to settle for canned.

He didn't know why but he had a sudden craving for a huge, hot plate of spaghetti, his mom's spaghetti, and since he couldn't have that his best approximation was going to have to do.

**XXX**

For the second night in a row, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills came home to find his son waiting for him. It was a rare occurrence; he could count on one hand the number of times Stiles had been downstairs when he'd gotten home from work in the last year. The boy was often out and gone, doing god-knows-what, getting into all kinds of trouble, and when he wasn't he avoided him, staying his room with the door firmly closed until it was time for him to go to school again the next morning.

Of course, he was guilty of the same far more frequently than he'd like to admit to.

It was just… hard, dealing with him anymore.

Even just talking to him.

He wasn't sure he even knew how anymore.

So when he opened the door to the smell of tomatoes and oregano bubbling away in a pot in the kitchen, apprehension warred with hope.

He'd been stunned that Stiles had met his curfew the day before without a fight, especially after having his keys confiscated, but doing it twice in a row was something he didn't think he'd ever seen. He was sure that, if his son had gotten home on time tonight at all, his own tardiness would send him right back out the door again, but with his hair still dark and curling at the back of his neck, damp from a shower, and homemade pasta sauce coming together on the stove, it was clear that he'd been home for a while.

He hadn't heard the door - he was blasting some kind of alternative rock from the dock speakers behind the sink - and he was doing a slow sort of shuffle step in his bare feet that suggested he was nervous, tense and keyed-up and desperate to move. They may not be on the best of terms anymore, but John still knew his son, and beneath the childlike vulnerability that the baggy sweatpants and the warm, aromatic kitchen leant to his boy, he could see the filament thin line of stress in his shoulders.

Giving him the opportunity to jump unobserved, he half turned back to the door as he cleared his throat, toeing off his heavy boots and hanging his jacket on one of the pegs in the hall. By the time he'd turned back around Stiles had reigned in the surprise and was jumping forward to kill the music, turning it down too far too fast and leaving them with an uncomfortable quiet. The teenagers shifted nervously, cleared his own throat before practically sticking his head into the pasta pot, breathing in as he stirred the dark sauce, and John heaved a heavy sigh, so loud that he almost missed the mumbled inquiry.

"Catch a case?"

It was quick, casual, but he wasn't oblivious to the old tinge of hurt and bitterness that lingered behind the words. His work was one of the things that had come between himself and Stiles over time, though only because he'd come to rely on it as an escape. An escape intended to get him away from himself, his own pain, but ended up taking him away from his young son too, leaving the little boy to fend for himself on more nights than the Sheriff could count.

But it had been years since Stiles had allowed him to get a glimpse of hurt in him, choosing instead to lash out or pull an Iceman routine on him instead. This was different, and coming right after their big blow-up and then the Lucky Charms, he was almost frightened of the change. Stiles wasn't normally one to work him over, too impatient for such a game of manipulation, so he doubted that the kid wanted something.

Where that left them he didn't know.

"Robbery down at the Pump-n-Pay," he replied, and even though he'd dropped down into a dining chair he could still see Stiles' knuckles go white around the wooden spoon he was holding. "Nothing serious, just a couple of stupid kids, but it left me with a stack of paperwork and a couple of irate parents."

"Rough night," Stiles murmured, but some of the steel had gone out of his shoulders, and John cocked an eyebrow at his back in confusion. "Seems to be a lot of that going around."

"How's that?" he asked, less curious than wanting to keep the conversation going.

"Nothing, just…"

Stiles turned to face him with a frown on his face, avoiding his eyes as he took down two plates and retrieved forks from the drawer. John wasn't sure he was going to answer but didn't want to scare him off, so he stayed quiet as the boy scooped up noodles, ladled steaming tomatoes over the top.

"Just had a rough practice," he finished finally, pushing one plate absent-mindedly towards the far edge of the counter, a clear offering before he ducked into the refrigerator for the green canister of grated parmesan.

The Sheriff eyed the plate with a little bit of trepidation, more than a little bit of wonder. He could hardly remember the last time they'd eaten together, let alone the last time Stiles had cooked. They'd become a frozen-food family after his wife's death, the cupboards stocked with cereal and soup and minute rice-a-roni, the microwave used far more often than the stove.

"I didn't poison it."

The comment was half-scathing, half-timid, perhaps the strangest clash of emotion to ever hit his ears, and it was possibly even stranger that he understood it. Stiles was frowning again, his eyes stuck to the counter as he held one arm wrapped tightly around his ribs, sitting down stiffly on one of the barstools that he'd dragged around to the kitchen side of the bar. He knew he'd probably had a pretty questionable look on his own face, so he tried to reign it in and save what was neutral between them before it all went to hell, dragging his own chair away from the table up to the other side of the island.

"I didn't think you did," he said, a concession to his own poor reaction before quickly moving on. "Are you all right?"

Stiles' gaze flicked up to his from where he'd ducked over his plate, a huge bite already stuffed into his mouth, noodles splattering his chin with sauce as he slurped them up. Thrusting his chin towards Stiles' chest, he picked up his own fork and twirled himself a neater bite.

" 'M fine," he mumbled after he swallowed, letting go of his ribs and straightening up. "Just got roughed up at practice a little."

"Wasn't that Whittemore kid was it?" he asked, and the dark glint in his son's eye and the razor edged smirk that lit at the corner of his mouth told him that he wished he hadn't asked.

"Just a hard scrimmage," he shrugged, his tone suggesting there was much more to it than that. "Doesn't matter. I'm all right… better than him anyway."

The last bit was muttered under his breath and had John narrowing his eyes.

"Better then who?" he asked, trying to keep any demand out of his tone because that would shut Stiles down faster than anything.

"Oh, mmph…"

John shot an unimpressed look in his son's direction, rewarded when Stiles ducked and swallowed, dragged the back of his wrist over his mouth in half a semblance of manners.

"That dog," he covered, and while he wasn't sure he believed him, there seemed to be a sudden spark of energy in him, an actual eagerness to talk that he hadn't seen in a long time. "That dog, the one I, um… the one I hit, with… with my car."

This got him drooping a bit, and the Sheriff had to fight the urge to reach out and squeeze the young man's shoulder, sure that the gesture wouldn't be well received.

"It was an accident Stiles," he said quietly, reaching out that way instead. "It wasn't your fault."

A beat of heavy silence fell and he suddenly wasn't sure if they were still talking about the same thing, but then Stiles was dragging his fingers through his hair, which had finally grown out from the awful buzz cut he'd had for so long, sighing and pushing his plate away.

"I know," he murmured. "I know that. But I mean, it kinda _was_. He's in bad shape."

"You stopped by Deaton's again?" John asked with a little bit of surprise. Stiles didn't really _care _about… well, anything, as far as he could tell. He was just going through the motions most days and he didn't really do guilt.

"Yeah," he replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to have done. "I mean I kinda feel… responsible, you know."

Shaking his head as though he were just as surprised by his words as the Sheriff was, he pushed up from his seat and carried his plate to the sink, dropping it in with a clatter.

"Gonna have to see if Deaton'll let me do a monthly payment plan, he muttered to himself.

The Sheriff narrowed his eyes, waited for him to elaborate, but all he did was grab his iPod and his bookbag and head towards the stairs.

"Stiles!" he called, a little more sharply than he'd meant to, but he needed to get it out before the boy disappeared on him.

Stiles jerked to a stop, half turned to him with a flash of… _something _in his eyes, and John had to swallow down a lump in his throat before he could speak.

"This was… nice."

Surprise swept over his son's face like a wave, there and gone again so fast he might've missed it if he'd blinked, almost as though he hadn't realized what had just happened between them. Hell, he was surprised himself - they'd just sat together and talked through a homemade dinner without going for the other's throat once, and that was an Oscar performance for them.

"I…" he began, looking young and lost, and then he pulled it in and the mask was back in place, smooth and emotionless. "Yeah," he replied, but his voice was flat. "Yeah, this was nice."

And then he was gone, leaving John to store the leftovers alone.

* * *

**So much Stilinski feels! Drop me a review pretty please, and if you like, head on over and check out my new one-shot 'The Curious Case of the Tea in the Nighttime' :)**


	10. Chapter 10

"Stiles… Stiles?"

"God, what?" he huffed, not even bothering to look up from the lacrosse stick braced across his lap.

He had a session with the school psychologist, Marin Morrell, every Wednesday at one-fifteen, halfway through study period and just before Chemistry, and every week he did his best to avoid it. He'd tried skipping a few times, gone out to the pitch and smoked under the bleachers, but that had just ended with her coming down to fetch him out of Harris' class later on, and that was an experience he never wanted to repeat. So now he went, made sure he was on time every week and never empty handed. He brought homework, scribbling answers out against his knee, or a quarter he once spent an entire session dropping over and over as he attempted to teach himself how to trill it over his knuckles. Anything so that he didn't have to look at her eerily calm face, her dark eyes that saw too much.

If he didn't know better, he'd think she was related to Deaton.

She certainly spoke in vague-enough terms to be his sister.

Today she'd started off with a quote by Churchill, one he already knew, so he'd scowled and tuned her out, focusing on his crosse, twisting his fingers into the laces and pulling the knots tight with his teeth. She was usually fairly content to observe him, something about his actions speaking louder than his words, but he must've been more quiet and less attentive than usual because she'd been calling his name patiently for the last minute and a half, her voice calm and steady until she'd needled him into a response.

"Tell me something," she said smoothly, a demand disguised as a request. "Anything. One thing that happened this week and how it made you feel."

Stiles ducked his head so that she wouldn't see him roll his eyes.

That was their rule, the unwritten requirement of these sessions. She'd implemented it after he'd shown up to the first three and refused to say a word - if he talked to her about one thing she wouldn't have to 'take steps' to increase his participation. He hadn't asked what that meant, didn't want to know; because he kept his GPA at a 3.9 despite Harris' best efforts, it was easier just to come and follow her stupid rule and get the whole ordeal over with. Usually it was something stupid, something trivial, something he made up to satisfy her.

Today…

Stiles' fingers paused in the rough netting of his stick, his thoughts spinning off into a race alongside his heartbeat as a pair of ice blue eyes loomed up bright and demanding in his mind. He could feel his chest getting tight as suddenly it got harder to breath, his body breaking out into a cold sweat inside the shell of his leather jacket. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his eyes shut in an attempt to shut it all down, turn all of his feelings off to better hold on to his sanity. He could feel Morrell's eyes on him, watching him knowingly as he fought the sudden panic attack, waited it out just as he did. He'd never had one in front of her before, but he was sure that it was in his file, part of the three inches of paperwork documenting just how messed up he really was.

"I hit a dog on Sunday," he bit out, forcing the words more as a distraction than anything else. Something for him to focus on just as much as her. "With my car."

"It seems like that's had quite an effect on you."

"No shit," Stiles muttered under his breath, and from the corner of his eye he thought he saw the shrink smirk. If he could say anything good about her at all it was that - she let him curse as much as he wanted, freedom of expression and all that jazz.

Squeezing his hands into fists, he shook out his fingers before untying all his knots, wrecking all the progress he'd made on the laces and starting over, moving slowly, methodically, one string at a time.

"I didn't mean to," he said thickly, though he wasn't sure why he felt the need to make that clear. Of course, it wouldn't surprise him if half the school thought that something he was capable of. For her part, Morrell didn't say a word, just let him work at his stick and his words.

Slow.

Methodical.

"It was an accident. Dark, rainy. He came out of the woods like a frickin' ghost. I took him over to Deaton's, got him patched up…"

"And…"

"And nothing," he snarled, knowing exactly what she wanted to hear but still not sure he wanted to go there. He'd thought maybe, but…

"Stiles."

It was gently chiding, soft and urging, but there was steel in her tone that warned him she wasn't kidding about the steps she'd threatened him with.

"Bad, ok?" he snapped, finally looking up at her with heated fury in his eyes. He hated this, this part of it, the damned _feelings_ she demanded of him, and maybe it was because no one else was brave enough to do the same but it rankled, like pins being pushed under his skin. "I felt bad! Christ, I'm not a monster, I didn't _wanna _to hurt him."

"You feel responsible," she said gently, her eyes quiet and emotionless but he knew better. Knew exactly what she was getting at.

"Yes," he growled between clenched teeth, his tone acidic enough to make the oxygen between them burn. "I feel _responsible_."

"We've talked about this before Stiles," she reminded him, unaffected by the poison in his voice, the way his knuckles had gone white around his lacrosse stick. "It's not a weakness to care about someone else."

"Yes it is," he muttered, forcing himself to go back to his laces. His stomach twisted with the words, a chill rolling through him as he thought about the night before, the painful, practically debilitating knot that his father's late return had thrown at him. Caring had always been a weakness, had only ever hurt him, and now it was putting a cold scare along the length of his spine that had him locking everything down - his muscles, his emotions, his mind - determined to hold back the shudder that threatened to take him.

"I hit the stupid thing and broke him, and now I feel like I have to fix him and I _hate_ it."

Stiles froze.

He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant it at all, and yet he'd meant it more than anything he'd ever said to Morrell in all their sessions. It was a cold, horrible truth and he didn't want it to be, didn't want to be the kind of person that thought that, that felt that. He wasn't nurturing, didn't care, and that was how he liked it because it kept him safe, but this dog, this stupid _dog_, who was such a mess and who'd been beaten and broken and maybe never shown anything but hurt was curling up somewhere inside his chest like Stiles could save him and it was making him sick to his stomach.

He was no savior.

Hell, he was probably just as broken.

He didn't want anything relying on him, _anyone_, didn't want the weight of that responsibility or expectation.

And yet he'd already started assuming it, already started trying to heft it up onto his shoulders.

Christ, he'd raided his emergency cash-stash that morning, stuffed the crumpled bills into an envelope and tucked it carefully into the pocket of his book-bag with the hopes that actually paying the bill would butter Deaton up enough to have him handing over the adoption papers without too much of a fuss.

Stiles shook his head vehemently.

"He deserves better than me," he mumbled, more to himself than Morrell. "Someone who can love him."

"And you can't love him?"

Stiles glared at her from beneath his eyelashes. She had an unnerving habit of listening to the things she wasn't meant to instead of the things she was.

"Thought you read my file Miss Morrell," he sneered nastily, dropping back on his sarcasm failsafe. "And I _know_ you call my dad every week as soon as I walk out that door."

Looking her full in the face, he slipped back into the cold, dark emptiness that he'd existed in up until now, that had kept him safe until he'd gone and hit a stupid dog with his stupid car.

"I don't know how to love."

A soft smile curved over the psychologist's mouth.

"You learn to speak by speaking," she said quietly. "To study by studying. To run by running and to work by working. In just the same way, you learn to love by loving."

"That's Anatole France," Stiles accused flatly.

She'd used him already.

"Yes," she agreed, glancing at the clock over Stiles' head. "And that's the end of our session this week."

Biting back a sigh of relief, Stiles slipped his crosse into the strap of his bag and swung it onto his shoulder, practically running for the door.

"Oh and Stiles," Morrell called, and he grit his teeth as his hand hit the doorknob, thwarted so close to escape.

"What?" he snapped, his shoulders tight as he refused to turn around.

"I've always found you to be a smart and determined young man," she said, and he could _feel _the challenge in those words. "I doubt there's much in this world that you can't learn."

Stiles swallowed, his fingers trying their damnedest to crush the metal handle of the door.

"Whatever," he muttered finally, and then he was pushing out of the little office, shrugging off the claustrophobia that clung to it even as the click and dial of a phone sounded behind him. She was calling his dad, he knew she was. She always did. Sometimes he hung around in the hallway, listening through the glass panel set into the door, but today he couldn't care enough to linger, even though there was some small part of him that wondered what she would say. They'd never had a session like this one, never had such an honest dialogue, because he normally had himself under better control than that. It was almost a point of pride, to be as closed off as she was, to talk without saying anything.

God, he needed a cigarette.

Deciding that he just couldn't deal with Harris or Lydia or Greenburg today, he let his feet carry him through the front doors towards the parking lot, prepared to spend last period skulking around the pitch until the bell rang and he could duck into the locker room to change for practice.

He wasn't so sure that he'd mind the bruises today.

**XXX**

The Sheriff wasn't surprised to hear from Marin Morrell that afternoon. She called each week with a punctuality that bordered on eerie, and he'd found it easier to speak to the woman directly than to try and decipher her voicemails, so he was ready, waiting in his office when the phone rang through, straight to his personal extension instead of tripping its way through the front desk. He answered with a weary greeting, his shoulders strangely heavy as he picked up the receiver, prepared as always to hear the worst even though the past few days had been a relief, a terrifying breath of fresh air to the painful ache of their routine.

"Sheriff, how are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Dr. Morrell," he sighed into the phone.

He couldn't understand why the woman insisted on these exhausting pleasantries, not when she knew what she knew. Not when she knew that his son would rather detail the entire history of the male circumcision than just _study _for his economics exam, or that he was smart enough to ace all the classes he skipped but not smart enough to know how to _talk_.

John remembered a time when all his son did was talk.

When he was bright and happy and sarcastic, rambling a mile a minute and flailing all over with a smile that stretched halfway to heaven.

What he wouldn't do to have that boy back.

"Sheriff?"

"Sorry," John said gruffly, clearing his throat as he realized he hadn't caught a thing that the psychologist had said.

"I understand that Stiles hit a dog with his car."

"Oh. Right. He did, yes."

"It seems to have affected him quite a lot."

John mumbled a little sound of assent, thinking back over the changes in his son's behavior over the last few days.

"I think so," he replied finally, unnerved as always by Morrell's ability to wait out a break in conversation, no matter how long or awkward. "He's been… different. Since. Hell, he's made his curfew two nights in a row and he actually cooked last night. I can't remember the last time he…"

Morrell waited patiently while he cleared his throat.

"I wonder if Stiles has mentioned what he plans to do about it?" she asked once he'd pulled himself together.

"About what?" he asked dully, feeling like he was half a step behind. "The dog? He hasn't said…"

"He seems to have taken on a large share of responsibility for what I'm sure was an accident," she said. "I speak plainly, Sheriff, when I say that I've never seen Stiles show as much emotion as he has today."

"What are you trying to tell me?" he barked, rather more loudly than he'd intended. He couldn't count the times he'd asked the woman to dumb down her techno-jargon for him, but she insisted in speaking in riddles and being as round-about as possible, and it drove even him halfway nuts. He had to give Stiles credit for dealing with her for an hour every week - he could hardly stand their ten minute phone calls.

"I'm suggesting that, should Stiles decide it his role to rectify this situation, you consider it carefully."

"You think I should get my son a pet?" he asked, skeptically, derisively.

"I think that, for whatever reason, this dog has opened your son up to the emotions he's denied for a very long time. I would be… interested to see how that might be fostered."

The Sheriff grunted, suddenly entirely dissatisfied with Morrell as a psychologist and as a human being in general, frustrated with her unhelpful and incomplete advice and her inability to just tell him what the hell was happening to his kid and to him.

But maybe that was his mistake - to think that anyone could explain the mess they'd gotten themselves into, to think that anyone could fix it.

"Well, like I said," he grumbled, "He hasn't mentioned it, so it doesn't really matter."

Morrell was silent but he could hear her judging him through the phone, could imagine her placidly pitying expression.

"Thank you, Dr. Morrell," he added, a clear dismissal.

He was ready to hang up on her if he had to.

"Until next week, Sheriff."

Placing the phone delicately back into its cradle in an effort not to slam it down hard enough to crack the cheap plastic, John dropped is head into his hands with a heavy, painful sigh, scrubbing his hands down over his face.

Would that it could be just a damned dog to bring Stiles out of his angry, distant shell.

Just a dog.

Would that it could be that easy.

* * *

**Review me pretty please!**


	11. Chapter 11

Time was becoming less fluid for him. It still moved and flowed, but it had become more linear, more normal. Things didn't feel so upside-down anymore. His vision and hearing were less fuzzy, less clouded, and it was easier to think and know what was happening around him. It made him feel just a little bit calmer, a little bit more capable having more control over his senses and his thoughts.

At the same time, he could now feel just how much time was dragging by.

Before he'd been in something almost like a dream-state, where it didn't matter how long the days or nights were, but now he knew. Knew exactly how long he lay with his nose buried in the blanket beneath him that was slowly beginning to lose its sunshine-smell, knew exactly how long the boy was away.

Well he could guess anyway.

Still, he was feeling a little bit better.

At some point the man with the dark skin and the shrouded face, the one that smelled like bitter secrets, had come and put down a steel bowl of cool, clean water and he couldn't remember the last time that he'd been given such a thing. He'd hauled himself upright and staggered towards it, his legs shaking beneath him, but it had smelled so good and he'd wanted it so badly that nothing was going to keep him from it. Lying down with the bowl between his forelegs, he drank the entire thing down in one go, lapping and splashing and getting the water everywhere, soaking his muzzle and dribbling it down his chin. It was cold and perfect on his parched mouth, his swollen tongue, and he ended up tipping the pan with his paw so that he could snort and wallow in the last little bit at the bottom, clanging it off the cement with a loud bang.

The sound summoned the man again and he'd shrunk back from him when he'd opened the gate, laid his ears back flat against his skull. There was something about him that put his teeth on edge, made him wary, but he'd only smiled and said something about improvement, held his hands out pacifyingly before reaching out to slip the needle from his leg and take away the IV drip. He took the pan too, much to his disappointment, but he brought it back a short time later and this time it was full again. He'd rumbled somewhere low in his chest when he set the pan down, but only drank a bit of the water. Some instinct told him that any more would make him sick, so as much as it hurt to hold back, he left the bowl and curled back up into the blankets in the corner, letting his eyes fall closed.

He was tired.

Sleep came and went constantly, but it never really seemed to be enough. He couldn't quite let go of consciousness completely, uncomfortable in the small kennel where the sounds of other animals and people hummed in the air around him. The openness of the run he was lying in was nothing like the heavy barred cage he was used to, wasn't the secure lair he wanted. There was a sort of quiver deep inside his chest, a tremble in his very core that suggested he wasn't safe, didn't trust his surroundings, and it made him want to snarl and snap his teeth at something, to lash out with a flash of fang and a splash of red, to fight back, to _control_…

Lying on his side with his braced leg stretched out in front of him, he growled quietly to himself.

Fighting was what he did, what he knew. The wounds from his last were still present, still hadn't healed. He was too exhausted, too sick to heal the way he should, and he could count the scars of that old life without effort. The leg that had been crushed between the jaws of the big Rottweiler ached dully, flaring to life whenever he put even a little of his weight down on it. His ear itched fiercely and he wanted nothing more than to scratch, but the one time he'd tried there had been a sharp, stinging pain the scent of blood so he left it alone. The long gash in his side still sent pangs of agony deep into his tender belly if he twisted or turned wrong, and he felt heavy all over, his heartbeat echoing in his joints.

It had been a painful experience, filled with heart-pounding fear and vicious injury, constant fear and fighting for his life, but it was what he knew. As dark as it was, as twisting and destructive on his mind, his soul, it had been _his_.

Some time later - he didn't know just how much - the man came back again, his appearance shocking him out of the deep pool he'd fallen into, helping him to swim up slowly to the surface of consciousness once more. He'd brought another pan, this one filled with a soft sort of mush that smelled a lot like the food he'd been fed before. Better, fresher, but still processed and full of chemicals and preservatives. Maybe even drugged. It made him flinch, made images of carnage and memories of sickness and heavy beatings flash in front of his eyes.

He didn't touch it.

He needed the energy, he knew that, needed whatever nutrients his broken body could squeeze from it, but he couldn't even stomach the _thought_ of eating, let alone any actual food. With just the water he already felt a little stretched, a little achy, understandable since it had been so long. He'd scoffed down a lot of vile things over the years to fuel his body, but here, in this brightly lit, sterile place, he just couldn't do it. Couldn't summon the energy for that most base of things - _feeding_ himself.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been in his own twisted prime, a powerhouse of muscle and killing finesse even if that power had been beaten and bound, broken in spirit until the moment he stepped into the ring and unleashed a sudden wave of pent-up wrath on whoever was unfortunate enough to face him.

Heaving a sigh, he shifted in his blankets, rolled his shoulders with an odd feeling of pride as he let those dark thoughts consume him.

A part of him wondered if he shouldn't have just stayed in the ring when it had imploded with the chaos of the raid, stayed with whatever man it was that had claim on him. That or whichever new one stole the opportunity and grabbed him by the scruff, dragged him to a new cage and put new fear into him. It had been a horrible life - part of him knew that - squalid conditions, constant abuse and frequent neglect, his needs barely met. Still, another part of him knew the other half of that truth.

Knew that when he'd stepped into that ring, none of the rest had really mattered. He had fought and he had killed and he had been _good_ at it. He had protected himself for one more day and more than that, he had proved himself. Proved that he could do something, be something, even if it was a terrible thing to be. He was the best of the best in the world he'd lived in, never to be doubted or bet against.

A certain sort of pride came with that, a primal thing soaked in hot, coppery red, animalistic urges all tangled up and clawing their way out of his chest with well-wrought ire.

Even know he could feel the pressure of them, building up beneath his rib cage in a bid to make him remember.

Remember that he was a dangerous thing, a dark thing, one that bided its time until the chain was slipped off and it could bare its teeth again with rightful fury.

But then _he _stepped back into the kennel and eased himself down to the floor, voice low and reassuring and his scent like grass and sun with just a hint of smoke, and all the shadows were swept away like a soothing breeze in spring, just edged with a hint of rain. Thoughts of a different kind swamped him then, ones that seemed to come from a different life. He couldn't make them out - they were hazy and far away - but he thought they might be… happy. That he might have once been safe and unafraid and even loved.

A high pitched whine broke from his chest when this thought flickered through his consciousness, painful in so many different ways. In that he had lost that, in that he could not remember. In that he may have never really had it at all.

Whimpering, unsettled, he rolled to his belly and wormed his way over to the boy's side, curling round him as he had before, still tentative and expecting rebuff but unable to resist the strangely magnetic pull of him. He was like gravity, drawing him in, unyielding and unapologetic, and he could do little more than submit to its whims, snug himself up tight around the boy's hip and drape his heavy head over his thigh, paste his ears back with a whine when his hand rose and then slowly, slowly relax when no pain came, only the barest touch stroking along his shoulders.

"Good boy."

That gentle murmur almost broke him.

He wasn't, he _wasn't_, and there was no way he ever could be, even if everything in him screamed to prove it. To show this boy, to _be_ that. To prove that such entirely incorrect praise _wasn_'t, that he _could_ be good if he just had the chance…

He thought that might be something he wanted very much, as much as he still wanted the freedom and release of the pits and the blood and the death that lay in them.

This new thing, lighter, brighter than ever he'd had or thought he could have.

He wasn't quite sure how to handle that.

Confused, hurt, tired - for the first time in a long time he did what felt good without considering the consequences; he huffed out a sigh and snuggled closer.

He stopped caring for time then, for minutes or hours or days. Instead he found himself counting heartbeats, calm and steady, _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_. A perfect point of dull silence in the quiet chaos of the clinic, all the other small, shifting sounds fading away. His nose was swamped with the clean scent of the boy that had already branded itself onto the insides of his lungs, seared its way into his brain, and the shallow heat of him pressed along his side was a low point of relief against his aching body.

His hand rose and fell at a steady beat, growing slowly more confidant as he stroked him from shoulders to hips, light over his ribs and down his spine. Every once in a while he changed the pattern, rubbing carefully around the base of his ears, and that felt just as good as the rest.

But…

He didn't know.

He just… couldn't completely relax beneath his touch. It wasn't painful at all, wasn't threatening, and he'd had enough of both to know the difference, but he still felt tense, tight, like he was waiting. Waiting for it to change, even though the boy kept up a constant stream of praise and reassurances, a gentle thrum of words that were more comforting for their tone than their actual meaning. His breathing came easier the longer he lay at his side, sinking into his simple presence, but then the other one came back and shattered it all.

"Mr. Stilinski, we discussed this."

"Yeah, well, you were kind of vague and cryptic with the whole thing - can't blame a guy for not getting it."

"Mr. Stilinski…"

"I want to take him home."

Wait, what?

"I don't know if that's wise, Mr. Stilinski."

Home?

"Why? He's getting better isn't he?"

That… that felt like something he knew.

"He is. I suspect that by Friday he'll be much improved. That's not the crux of this."

Like something he wanted.

"Then what's the problem? Someone has to take him - he can't stay here forever."

"Mr. Stilinski, this dog has been fought. For many years unless I miss my guess. He's a fighter, calibrated to kill. Given his size, the… high possibility that he has wolf's blood in his lineage… he's dangerous, Mr. Stilinski. You understand my concern."

Dangerous? What… no. Well, yes. He… he _was_, but… he could… not be. He could do that, he could… he could be _good_.

Whimpering quietly, he wiggled beneath the hand that had gone still atop his head, sat up and butted against it, darted his tongue out to lick at fingers that tasted of salt and smoke and _him_.

"Maybe he _was_," the boy said above him, resuming the gentle rubbing around his ears. "But he's not there anymore. He's _here_, and he deserves…"

The boy sighed heavily and his scent flared with pain, irritation, determination, making him squirm and nudge his knee with his muzzle.

"I can take care of him," the boy tried again, and that sentiment drove a hot knife somewhere deep into his chest. That he would offer that, want to do that…

"Caring for a fighting dog involves a great deal more than a normal pet, Mr. Stilinski."

"I get that. It's a serious commitment, hard work, blah, blah, blah. But come on man, he hasn't been aggressive at all, not even when he was hurt. Besides, I think he likes me."

He did, he did, he _did_…

"Just let me try…"

"The clinic is closing, Mr. Stilinski."

And then the other man was gone and there was a crushing sense of despair making his stomach drop. Whining miserably, he laid his ears back and tried to hold the boy down with his weight as he pulled his legs out from beneath his chest, but he just smiled and rearranged him gently into the blankets, dipping down to look into his eyes.

"Don't worry buddy," he smiled, keeping his voice low. "I'm good at wearing people down."

And then he was gone again, leaving him with a chill, biting hope like a winter wind, full of things he didn't know but wanted desperately none the less.


	12. Chapter 12

After his talk with Marin Morrell that afternoon, Sheriff Stilinski expected that he would find his son at home when he got back. Stiles was perfectly capable of cleaning up his act when he chose to, and he'd made his curfew the last two nights in a row, so he didn't think a break in that pattern was likely. What he didn't expect however, was to step through the front door to find Stiles turning a pan of chicken in the oven and stirring rice on the stove, finishing up a meal that he had to be at least thirty minutes into already.

Which meant he'd come in early, planned it that way.

And that was more than he had asked for, more than he'd anticipated.

It put his shoulders up, made him wonder what exactly his son was about to ask for.

There was music playing from the little radio under the counters again but it was lighter than it had been before, calmer, and Stiles was moving to it in a calculated way that John knew. He saw it when there was something on the teen's mind, when there was a cold sort of focus in him or when he was unsure. He didn't jump when he turned and found his father watching him, just nodded with his chin and went back to whatever little things he still needed to finish. Grabbing on to the dismissal with both hands, he headed up the stairs at a jog, stopping by his office to store his gun and his badge before climbing into the shower.

A wave of weariness overcame him as he showered, washing away the sweat and grime of the day, all complacent work and waiting. He let the water stay cold, bite at his skin as he considered the constant weight of the work that he loved, one moment all the ease of traffic tickets in a small town, the next the heart-pounding fear of armed robbery and murders. It was the devil of small town police work - at times it made you complacent, let you fall into the pattern of _nothing happens here_.

And then your son 'accidentally' sets off an improvised Molotov cocktail in Chemistry class and throws the entire school into a lockdown.

Rinsing the last of the shampoo bubbles from his hair, John wrenched the water off and stepped out, toweling down roughly before tugging on a pair of threadbare sweats and an old academy t-shirt. He considered socks, but felt as if he might collapse back into sleep if he dared sit down on the edge of the bed. As it was he found himself slumped heavily against the wall, his shoulders landing with a heavy thud that echoed through his whole body.

He wasn't sure when he'd become afraid of his own son.

Not in the way that he might be if Stiles were violent - physical aggression wasn't something he guarded against.

Other things though, other things he feared. The words that cut, the acting out that said the young man was falling apart. The interactions that suggested there wasn't anything left of them, left _for _them. He was afraid of what they had become, the two of them, the path that it would be so easy to continue walking down.

Scared.

It put tension in the pit of his belly, lifted the hair on the back of his neck, but for all his flaws, the Sheriff didn't count cowardice among them.

_For courage is not the absence of fear, but rather action in the face of it_.

It was one of his wife's favorite quotes, one she had often recited as she straightened his tie and sent him out on his shift. Remembering it now made his throat tighten and his eyes sting, so he coughed hard to fight down the pain of memories that threatened to send him back to the liquor cabinet and headed down to the kitchen, where the scent of roasted chicken had begun to fill the air.

"Smells good," he said carefully, tonelessly as he came in, surprised to find two places already set. They weren't at the dining table, just plates and forks at the island counter, but it was still an almost remarkable thing to see.

"It's just garlic and rosemary," Stiles shrugged in much the same voice, brushing off the praise as he turned the music down to a bare murmur. "We're running pretty low."

"Yeah, this weekend's the grocery run," he admitted, shuffling his feet a bit. He was definitely guilty of letting the cupboards go pretty bare - it wasn't like anybody was cooking. "I figured we'd make it till Saturday. I have the day off so I thought I'd go in the morning."

"Actually, I… thought I might go."

Pulling his head out of the refrigerator where he was digging for the milk carton at the very back of the shelf, he sent a glance over his shoulder to catch sight of his son twisting a pot holder nervously between his hands before he ducked down and pulled a pan from the oven.

"You could come," he said slowly, cautiously.

He couldn't remember the last time he and his son had done something together, even something as mundane as grocery shopping. Stiles paused, froze almost imperceptibly, but then he was moving again like it had never happened, making a non-committal humming sound at the back of his throat before turning off the stove. John began moving again too, slowly, the way he did when he was talking down a suspect. Going to have class smoke, he rinsed the carton in the sink, crushed it, and threw it into the trash. The crunch of the plastic in his hands was oddly satisfying, and he took his seat on the other side of the island feeling slightly better than he had when he'd come down the stairs.

Watching silently as Stiles filled their plates, he tried to think of how he was going to open their conversation, what he would start.

He was drawing a blank.

Hopefully Stiles would have better luck.

The young man finished plating the rice, set the pot on the back of the stove, and took his seat across from him, looking much calmer than the Sheriff felt. For a few minutes the only sound was that of knives and forks, chewing and quiet murmurs of enjoyment.

"Real good son," he said, only little bit gruffly.

"Thanks," Stiles murmured, almost inaudibly.

He was toying with his fork, turning it between his fingers, and a pang in his chest had him opening his mouth again to save the kid the painful silence.

"So how was school?"

"Morrell called you," Stiles accused with a blank frown, but his knuckles were white around his fork this time.

"Yeah," he replied, tapping his knife against the edge of his plate. "I gotta tell you kid, I don't know how you do it every week. I've interviewed murder suspects who were more forthcoming."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around," Stiles replied, and there was a small smirk tipping at the corner of his mouth. It was a little dark, a little derisive, but it was still a smirk, almost a smile.

"How so?"

"Just Deaton," Stiles growled, going back to pushing his chicken around his plate. "He's cryptic as all hell. If I didn't know any better I'd think they were related."

John chuckled. His interactions with the vet have been limited over the years, but he knew exactly what his son was referring to. Now that he thought about it, Deaton and Morrell actually did seem very similar, enough that they _could_ actually be brother and sister.

"He being his usual helpful self?"

"Yeah, he just..." Stiles frowned again, dragged his hands through his hair before pushing his plate away. "It's nothing."

John hummed noncommittally, knew better than to push. Employed all of his knowledge of interrogations and waited.

"I just thought… maybe… I mean it was my fault, you know?"

"It was an accident Stiles," he said quietly, perturbed by the guilt playing across his son's face. Stiles so rarely showed emotion anymore, and when he did it was almost always anger, derision, sarcasm. This seemed painfully honest in contrast, achingly sincere.

"I know that, I just... feel responsible I guess."

Sighing, the Sheriff pushed back his plate, slouched down in his chair to hook an elbow over the back.

"So what you want to do about it?"

Stiles looked up sharply, his face pale, his eyes dark and alert. He opened his mouth and closed it again without saying anything, uncertain, questioning, defensive, but John still held his tongue.

"You don't think I owe him something?" Stiles asked, and his tone was cold and defensive and accusing again.

"I didn't say that," John said harshly, and he saw the flash of anger in his son's eyes that he so often did, saw his jaw settled into the hard lines that had come to signal an explosive outburst a long time ago. The young man's hands clenched tightly around the edge of the island, his knuckles going white, but then to his great surprise they loosened and all the fight when out of his shoulders. Scrubbing his hands hard over his face, he heaved a massive sigh and dropped his elbows onto the countertop.

"I know that," he said quietly and John huffed a sigh of his own. It would be so much easier just to offer, just to say what his kid couldn't seem to. He was no shrink, didn't claim to be, but something told him that Stiles needed to say it himself, that he needed to make him say it.

"So what do you want to do?"

Silence.

Long, hard minutes while Stiles stared down at his empty plate, twisting a fork between his fingers so tightly the Sheriff was surprised the metal didn't bend.

"I can't leave him there."

Well.

It wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but he supposed it was a place to start.

Still, before he could even encourage further response something seemed to break in the young man and he was off and running at the mouth in a half-controlled stream of babble that his father hadn't heard in a very long time.

"It's just that it was my fault, even if it was an accident. I hit him with my car and he was already hurt and I just made it worse. And now he's stuck in that little kennel over at Deaton's and God knows that guy doesn't go around and cuddle them. And he's had a shitty life dad, you can see it just by looking at him, and he doesn't deserve…"

"Take it easy Stiles," John chuckled, a smile threatening his mouth as he got to his feet and took his plate to the sink. Pausing behind his son's chair, he took a chance and reached, out, squeezed the teen's shoulder. His muscles were tight and strained but he didn't flinch away from the contact, didn't shrug him off angrily the way he used to so many years ago when the Sheriff still attempted to keep some kind of connection between them. "I haven't said no to anything have I?"

"No," he mumbled after a minute, catching his breath. "But I haven't asked for anything."

"Then ask."

Turning around, he found Stiles sitting crosswise on his stool, watching him with eyes that were almost haunted.

"I can bring him here?"

The Sheriff sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. Now was the time to backpedal, because as well as this was going, as much as he didn't want to ruin it, he had to be sure.

"That's a big responsibility Stiles," he quietly. "Every day, for years. Are you ready for that?"

"I want to be."

It was like a drumbeat inside his chest, an echo that thrummed through to his fingertips. The fact that his son was being honest enough to admit the truth, even when it might not be the answer to get him what he wanted, felt huge to him.

"Ok."

"What?"

"Ok," he repeated. "Talk to Deaton. If he gives you the all clear, and I mean that Stiles… then we can try this."

He wasn't sure what he expected after that but it certainly wasn't what he got. Stiles came barreling at him, crashing against him in a hug as hard and tight as it was brief. He couldn't remember the last time they'd done this, and he wondered if Stiles did, wondered if the boy even realized what he'd done before they were breaking apart awkwardly and rubbing at the backs of their necks.

"Right, so um…" he muttered, looking down at his feet. "I, uh… I paid Deaton earlier. Some of the bills. I… need to do some research, but…"

Cocking a thumb back over his shoulder towards the stairs, shifting on his feet, and the Sheriff just nodded, sent him off on a good note before this short moment of… hell he didn't even know - peace, understanding, whatever it was - could blow up in his face or disappear like it had never been.

"Go," he agreed. "You cooked, I've got the dishes."

Stiles nodded and for a moment it looked like he might come forward again, offer a second embrace before that looked trailed away, dissipated until it was gone. Still, an awkward sort of smile turned over his face, like he wasn't comfortable or accustomed to the gesture and he probably wasn't, and somehow that made it all the more important.

"Thanks."

And then he was gone, thundering off up the stairs with a charge of excitement that was also new to him, and the Sheriff wondered if maybe Morrell _had_ gotten something right and this dog could be the catalyst to turning both their lives around.

**XXX**

"Well my friend," Deaton said, looking down at the werewolf that lay quietly in the bottom of his kennel, "I don't know what else I can do for you."

And therein lay his dilemma, he quite simply did not know what his next step was in this.

He was charged with keeping the balance, and this had the potential to gravely upset that balance. As of yet it hadn't, but the potential was there for great disaster.

He'd taken a blood sample after the Stilinksi boy had left and while there were still definitive traces of mistletoe in the werewolf's system, it wasn't so much that he should be unable to shift back into his human form. He had tried to make a safe place here, communicate the fact that the man was now free to be just that - a man. No tactic had worked, and he was beginning to fear that the damage done to his psyche, the months, potentially years of pain, abuse, and fear were now making it impossible for him to pull himself together.

He was simply too fragmented, too broken to collect the pieces and fit them back together again.

And he was… hesitant to have hope for him.

Lying in the bottom of the kennel, he was still and alert, watching Deaton's every move with wary eyes. He'd seen tension and minor aggression from the wolf but judged it all with a careful eye. Given his suspected past, he was entitled to a bit of fear, entitled to warn others away. Entitled to protect himself.

Which was the biggest contributor to the problem at hand.

He wasn't an alpha so he couldn't turn a human, either by accident or design, but he was a werewolf and could do some terrible damage in either case.

And maybe that was the advantage to the Stilinski boy taking such a shine to the werewolf.

It would keep him close to hand, keep him under Deaton's eye, and even he had to admit that the injured creature seemed less stressed in the boy's presence, calmer, almost content in his place.

Perhaps that was the best he could hope for.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles staggered into the vet's office the next afternoon battered and bruised by another grueling lacrosse practice, now more accurately termed _Make Stiles Regret Ever Joining This Team_…

Still bitter about being on the receiving end of his epic tackle, Jackson had set his lackeys on him once again, driving him into the ground every chance they got. Coach only seemed to catch on in the last quarter, attempting to save Stiles' skin by putting him in the goal, but that was even worse because instead of aiming for the net behind him, the other boys just started aiming for his face and his nuts. He'd never been happier to be benched than he had the last fifteen minutes of practice, collapsing onto the bleachers at Scott's side and curling up in the fetal position, his hands tight between his thighs.

Luckily his best friend had his mother's car at his disposal that afternoon and was able to give him a ride across town when it was over. He wasn't sure he would have made it otherwise - his desire to speak with the vet and see the dog again was fighting a losing battle with his desire for an ice bath and a nap. Still, even with a badly bruised cheekbone and a dull, throbbing ache in his crotch, he couldn't help but feel a little bit happy, a little bit eager, things he hadn't really felt in a long time.

He had a speech planned. A whole pitch that he was ready to deliver. As exhausted as he was, he found himself hoping that he wouldn't have to give it, but he knew better than that and so he steeled himself for the debate. Scott arched an eyebrow in his direction when he pulled a thick, black binder full of research out of his bag but didn't say anything, just slipped into the back of the office to clock in and start cleaning kennels. He was glad for that at least - as much as he loved his goofy dork of a best friend, he didn't think the other boy's input would really help with Deaton.

Speaking of…

"Mr. Stilinski," the vet remarked, stepping into sight and opening the swinging door to gesture him behind the counter. "Back again?"

Stiles bit back a smart-mouthed remark, tamped his irritation down. He needed to get off on the right foot here, and he didn't want to jeopardize his chances by jerking the vet around.

"Yes sir," he replied in a soft, low tone, though it felt like glass on the inside of his throat. For a minute he shifted on his feet and Deaton watched him in silence, and Stiles got the distinct impression that the vet was amused by his uncertainty, which only intensified the feeling. Ducking his head, deciding to wait for his opening, Stiles slipped past and headed towards the back, his feet taking him through the now familiar maze of rooms and shelving to the kennels. He could feel Deaton trailing after him slowly but didn't look back over his shoulder, fixed instead on the far kennel and the dark tuft of fur pressed against the wire gate.

He was halfway down the lane when the dog must have scented him or otherwise sensed him coming, as the hip against the wire rolled away, only to be replaced by a furry face and bright, eager eyes. He hadn't gotten to his feet which worried Stiles a bit, but he seemed much more lively, especially since that first night when he lay so still in the bottom of the kennel. A high pitched whine escaped the animal as it pressed itself close to the gate, its paws scrabbling against the concrete, and Stiles hurried forward to stop it from hurting itself. Slinging his bag and the binder to the ground, he opened the gate and stepped inside, sinking immediately to the floor where the dog squirmed its way into his lap, curling his large body between Stiles' open legs and draping its heavy head and neck over his thigh, his injured foreleg held close to his chest.

Shocked by the sudden intensity of it, the way the dog surged forward and pressed itself so close, Stiles froze, his hands held high near his shoulders, until the creature heaved a massive, groaning sigh of relief and settled onto him like a ton of sand, going entirely limp. Collecting his scattered wits, he tucked his surprise away, lowering his hands slowly and cautiously until he sank his fingers into the thick, heavy ruff of fur around the back of the dog's neck and shoulders.

"Hey there buddy," he murmured, his voice soft.

The dog huffed what seemed to be a quiet, contented sigh, shifting as though to settle himself closer, his eyes falling closed as Stiles rubbed around the base of his ears. A smile touched his face at the relief that seemed to come to the animal then, the thought that his presence might give him enough of the feeling of safety that he could so easily crowd close and sleep. Above him Deaton watched quietly and intently, a frown taking the place of his typically flat expression. Here, now, seemed his best opportunity, and so he stretched out his free leg to push his binder full of research forward with his toe.

"I want to take him home."

A beat of silence followed his declaration.

"I'm not sure that's wise, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles bit down so hard on the inside of his lip that he tasted blood, and the dog's head jerked up sharply. It met his gaze with an oddly intense and worried look, distracting him just enough to calm the anger that had flared in his chest. Stroking the animal's spine lightly, Stiles waited until it dropped its head back onto his thigh before redirecting his attention to the vet.

He could do this.

He had expected this, prepared for this.

Stiles took a breath, let it out slowly.

When he next spoke, his voice was flat and calm, easy despite the heat behind his glare and the itching in his fingers that said he wanted a cigarette.

"You've said that already," he replied with as much respect as he could. "But you didn't tell me why."

"I'm quite certain I have, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton said, crossing his arms. "This animal has been fought. Quite probably for several years. That takes a toll on a psyche. He's likely to be highly reactive, potentially extremely aggressive."

Stiles scoffed as the dog made a whimpering sound in his lap like he'd been listening carefully to the conversation, stretching forward to dart out his tongue and lick Stiles' elbow lightly. Deaton's eyebrows dropped in a display of aggravation greater than Stiles had ever seen from the vet, and it made him swallow hard and duck his head.

"On top of this I suspect that this… dog… has a great deal of wolf in his lineage."

"I get it, ok?" Stiles said, unable to contain himself any longer. "He's part wolf. He came out of a ring. I know it's not gonna be like having a regular dog." Here he shoved the binder forward again, kicking it across the concrete with a loud, scraping sound until it collided with Deaton's sneaker. "But I did the research, everything I could find. They can be rehabilitated, they can be raised safely in a home. You just have to do it right. I can do it right! And besides…"

Here he paused, looked down at the dog in his lap that looked suddenly miserable, his ears drooping as he turned his head away and refused to meet his gaze.

"Look at him. He hasn't been aggressive, hasn't reacted. And anyway… I think he likes me."

A full minute passed and he wondered if maybe he'd pushed too hard too fast, if he'd blown his chance.

"Perhaps you're right," Deaton replied at last, and Stiles felt the sudden weight of those words settle on his shoulders like expectation. But he hadn't lied - he could do this right, _would _do this right.

The dog deserved that, and Stiles thought that maybe… well, maybe he did too.

**XXX**

Later that night Stiles sat across from his father turning his fork over and over in his hands, much like the way he had the night before, but this time the Sheriff was far less worried for his cutlery and far more worried for his son. When he'd agreed to let Stiles to bring the dog home, he hadn't ever considered that the vet would say no, that for whatever reason it wouldn't work out. Naturally then he hadn't considered how such an outcome might affect the young man sitting before him, pushing his dinner round his plate with a face like a brewing rain storm.

"I'm sorry kiddo," he heaved on a sigh, missing the way Stiles' head jerked up and the confusion that flashed across his face. "But if Deaton said no he must've had a good reason. The man's strange but he's a damned good vet, you know that."

"Wh… no!" Stiles yelped, flailing so hard that his knife went skittering off the table towards his feet. Ducking down to retrieve it, his motions were so erratic and jerky that he clipped the back of his head off the edge of the table. Hissing with pain he came back up again, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. "He didn't… I mean, he wasn't happy, but he said…"

John raised his eyebrows, more than a little concerned by his son's distress and more than a little confused as to where it stemmed from.

"It's still ok right?" Stiles asked suddenly, his voice too loud, but his father suspected that that was due more to a loss of control than intention shouting. "I mean, I can…"

"I said we could try it Stiles," he said carefully, watching Stiles' shoulders in the hopes that they would drop, that the buzzing tension would go out of him but he was disappointed. "Deaton agreed then?"

"Yeah."

"Then why the long face?"

Stiles paused, looked up at him like he was seeing him for the first time, hadn't even realized that he had been sitting across from him all this time.

"I don't… I just…"

Swallowing hard, the boy pushed his dishes away, hugged himself tightly.

"I just feel like I owe him. Like, he deserves so much better than he'd got, and what if I can't…"

"Woah, son," John admonished, finally giving in and reaching forward to clasp Stiles' shoulder across the table. "Take it easy. You want to help him, I understand that. That's ok. But you need to take a breath."

As soon as he said the words he wanted to bite them back - they were just the type to set the boy off like a roman candle. To his great surprise though, Stiles did just that, his shoulder rising and falling again under the Sheriff's hand as he sucked in a huge breath and let it out again.

"There you go," he murmured, taking his hand away again. "Stiles I know you feel responsible for this dog but you need to remember that you weren't the one who fought him, ok? You weren't the one who hurt him."

Letting out another shaky breath, Stiles nodded, but John wasn't sure he really agreed with what he'd said.

"Stiles, is this what you want?"

"What?" Stiles yipped, jumping in his chair again and his father flinched as he almost went toppling off his chair. "Dad no! I mean, yeah, this, this is what I want. I want to… I want to make him better. I want… I want him to be happy. I just… what if I'm…"

"Not good enough?"

Watching his son practically crumble before him twisted the Sheriff's heart in a way it hadn't felt in a long time, and he dragged a hand over his face with sudden exhaustion.

"Stiles," he said quietly, standing from the table and carrying his plate to the sink, pausing behind his son to squeeze his shoulder. "I know you. I know the things you can do, the way you put your all into something. I know it's been… a long time, but… that's still you. You still have that in you."

The argument felt a little stilted, a little hollow, even to him, so he tried again as he began to run the water to rinse the pans.

"You do your best," he said, and the words resonated with something deep inside of him that was tender and afraid, had been for some time. Because how different could raising a dog be from raising a child? "You do your best," he repeated, his throat tight, "And you make it enough." Closing the dishwasher, he turned around to find Stiles watching him with huge, dark eyes, and it knocked the breath from his lungs like a wrecking ball - the face of a small boy looking to his father to make things better again.

"So you'll do your best Stiles. You'll get him his shots, license him and leash him. Give him food and exercise, and even that might be enough to make things better. But you'll love him too Stiles. And that… that's what will do it."

Suddenly certain that he was about to either choke or sob, John patted his son's shoulder one last time and moved past him towards the stairs, intent on his office where he could collect himself again. He didn't know what had come over him, what had passed between himself and Stiles in the last few moments, but it felt new and old all at the same time, almost like they'd gotten back to what they'd been before, and the Sheriff who had faced down armed gunman and homicidal robbers found himself frightened.

"Dad?"

Stiles' voice tripped over his nerves like electricity but he couldn't help but do anything other than pause, turn back to him with a patient question on his face.

"Could I… I mean I know you took my keys but…"

Eyes firmly on the floor, Stiles shifted on his feet, looking more vulnerable and uncomfortable than John had seen him in a very long time.

"I thought maybe… I mean he can't walk very far right now," he finally managed, bringing his face up but keeping his gaze off of his father's. "Do you think I could… have the jeep back, just for tomorrow? I could get him some stuff at the store and bring him home. I'll even get the groceries if you want. And I'll give the keys back as soon as I get him home, I promise! I just…"

"I think that'll be fine Stiles," John replied tiredly, and surprisingly he believed Stiles that he only wanted his vehicle back for the afternoon, where any other time he wouldn't suspected his son of manipulation. "You know where the keys are."

Overcome by the sudden want for his bed, to kiss the photo of his wife and fall into unconsciousness, he waved a hand in Stiles' direction and began to climb the stairs.

"G'night son," he murmured, and the words parroted back at him were edged with a brightness of hope and excitement he hadn't heard in a very long time.


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles would have expected school to drag by the next day, to actually _feel _the seconds ticking by one by one like drops of water on his skin, but luckily for him that wasn't the case. Classes went fairly quickly, but that wasn't to say that they went easily. He was filled with the frenetic sort of energy, as though he hadn't taken his Adderall in a few days, which, yeah_, _he_ hadn't_, but that wasn't the point. His knee jiggled constantly beneath his desk, he was chastised several times for tapping pencils against the desk so quickly and loudly that he'd distracted the other students, and he hadn't even pretended to pay attention to the lessons being taught.

Not that that wasn't really par for the course for him, but again, not the point.

He'd had to sneak out twice for a smoke in the parking lot. He'd hoped that the cigarettes would settle his nerves, but the anxious sort of excitement running through his blood wouldn't ease. Scott tried several times to calm him down but Stiles brushed him off, moving through the day like a hyper-charged zombie, bouncing and twitching along while his brain totally numbed out. When the last bell finally rang he practically ran for his locker, throwing his books inside and fishing for his car keys.

"I'm cutting practice," he said, his head still inside the locker, but he could feel Scott standing next to him, anxious and expectant.

"What? Why? You can't skip, you'll get cut!"

Stiles snorted, re-emerging victorious with the keys clutched in his fist.

"The season hasn't even started Scott," he countered, slipping his arms into his leather jacket and grabbing his book bag off the floor before clapping his friend on the shoulder. "But if Finstock asks tell him I puked."

Ignoring Scott's spluttering protests, he took off down the hallway, calling his thanks back over his shoulder as he went.

Fifteen minutes later he was pulling in to the grocery store and checking his wallet for his debit card. His father had learned not to give him any cash a long time ago, but there was a one-way link between their bank accounts that would let Stiles buy the groceries without using his own money. Of course he would have to produce a receipt but that was fine - he bought his under-aged cigarettes and cans of spray paint with cash two towns over anyway. Digging the shopping list out of his glove box, he locked up and headed inside.

The automatic doors slide open with a cool, air-locked whoosh and as he stepped inside he was surprised to feel a small weight of comfort and familiarity drop into his shoulders. It had been a long time since he'd done this - he mostly subsisted on frozen pizzas, cafeteria lunches, and junk food he picked up at the gas station while his dad practically lived off of coffee and whatever food still got anonymously dropped off for the widowed Sheriff down at the station. There had been a time though, for a little while, that the two of them had cooked for each other, each of them pretty much limited to sandwiches and things that could be microwaved or heated easily on the stove. Still, they'd done it, and he could remember when he still took a little peace and a little enjoyment from going to the store with his dad, slowly working their way through the lists.

Snagging a cart, Stiles tightened his hands around the cool, metal handle, bringing himself back to present.

No use going there.

So for the next hour it was pasta and rice, milk and eggs and butter, veggies and fresh fruit. As he loaded the basket with packages of chicken and lean ground beef before turning into the spice aisle, he realized that all the planning he'd been doing was preparation for taking on a role, a responsibility he hadn't even meant to take. He was buying things that needed to be prepared, cooked, which meant that subconsciously at least he intended to keep up what he'd been doing for the last few nights and make an actual dinner.

And that thought gave him pause, his hand on a small bottle of red pepper flakes as a recipe for Italian meatloaf wandered slowly by.

Did he really want this?

The last few years had been nothing but scraping by, a slacker's wet dream, doing the absolute bare minimum he could get away with. He was the stereotype of the bitter, angry kid who'd lost his mom, who almost never saw his dad and didn't respect anyone, law or otherwise. He wore his leather jacket, smoked his cigarettes and tagged his buildings, cut his classes and his practice. He kept himself isolated and safe with his attitude and that was how he liked it.

Now, in the middle of the Stop-n-Shop, he was struck by the idea that this, the smallest of things, might change all of that. He had no real desire to change, no intentions of turning himself into a compliant little Betty Crocker, and he wondered if he could pull this off without giving up the image he'd built himself up to. It wasn't the reputation so much. He didn't really give a damn what any of the little peons at his school thought, had given up on his father's deputies a long time ago. No, it was the armor he was afraid of shedding, the weapons he was scared to let go of.

But he wasn't a pussy either.

Shaking off the bullshit existentialism of what feeding himself a decent meal could mean, he was quick to finish up the shopping, getting whatever he damned well wanted and letting the anger he felt towards his own anxieties power him through it without another mini breakdown in the cereal aisle. At the checkout he bagged his own stuff, swiping his debit card and pocketing a Snickers bar on pure principle on his way out the door.

Biting into the candy as he loaded paper bags into the back of the Jeep, he tried to let go of the heat, focused instead on the small sparks of excitement still popping in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't really had a pet before. He'd had a small boa snake at one point, but really, what kind of a pet was that? Sure, he got to feed it live mice, which was kind of cool at the time, and it definitely did good things for his image, but it wasn't exactly a very interactive creature. All told he'd gotten bored of it pretty quickly, and his dad had taken the responsibility of getting rid of it one day while he was at school before he let it go in the back yard. He wasn't sure he could remember ever asking for a dog, not the way Scott had begged and pleaded for one all through their childhood, but the prospect of it now was… intriguing. It had all been a sense of obligation up until now, rare feelings of guilt lingering around and urging him to bring the dog he'd practically run over home, but as he drove to the other side of town to the one little pet supply store that Beacon Hills could boast, he realized that there was something different to it.

He was actually… looking forward to this.

Anticipating it.

Stiles didn't even look forward to _holidays_ anymore.

And stepping into the store only to be hit in the face with the smell of wood shavings and the sound of birds shrieking and walls crammed full of way too many colors, he realized that he really didn't have any idea what he was doing.

"Can I help you?"

"Oh thank god, yes!" he groaned, turning hard on his heel to find a young man about his age standing next to him, wearing a dark green apron and holding a push-broom.

"You had that look," the guy grinned and then he was watching Stiles with steel grey eyes full of something like mischievous amusement and provocative question, and he got the abrupt yet distinct feeling that he was being flirted with.

Which, ok, that was… nice he supposed.

Throwing subtlety out the window, Stiles stepped back and gave him a blatant once-over; blue and white baseball raglan stretched over broad shoulders, blonde hair long and fluffy on top, shorter and dyed purple on the sides. A strange look of innocence in a boyish face behind thick, black framed glasses and small gauges, a kid playing at being the college hipster Beacon Hills occasionally saw come through on spring break.

Interesting.

"Stiles," he said finally, only partly to cover up his awkward silence, and when the guy reached out to return his offered handshake, he caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his wrist that he couldn't quite make out.

"Vaughn," he grinned, and Stiles noticed with interest the name tag on the guy's shirt the read 'Tommy,' but apparently he felt no need to explain.

"So," he smirked, shoving his hands into his jeans and rocking back on his heels. "I think I'd remember if I'd seen you in here before."

Definitely flirting.

"Haven't had a pet before," he replied. "I'm adopting. Today, actually."

"Which explains the look of panic," Vaughn chuckled.

"Right."

"Ok, no problem, starter kit then." Jerking his chin toward the back of the store, he started off through the aisles, weaving athletically around precarious displays and past a brightly colored parrot in a cage that cat-called Stiles when he passed. "What is it you're adopting?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder to make sure he was keeping up.

"A dog," he answered after a minute, remembering Deaton's warning and his own suspicions about the animal's bloodlines. "A big one."

"How big we talking?"

Stiles frowned, held his palm parallel to the floor at mid-thigh.

Vaughn's eyebrows jumped.

"Big then," he said with some surprise. "Ok, so I'd start out with just the bare basics, and then you can go from there. Decide if you wanna be the guy that buys a bed for his dog nicer than the one he has."

"I don't think so," Stiles deadpanned, maybe passing it off as derision when really he was just thinking of the dog sleeping at the foot of his bed.

Vaugh smirked, clapped his hands together before spreading them out to gesture at the wall of products before them.

"Then let's get started."

The next twenty minutes were a blur of price comparisons and size estimations as Stiles' arms were loaded with stainless steel food bowls, a box of biscuit treats, a rope toy and a canister of tennis balls. He debated for a while before splurging on a leash and collar in a rich, chestnut-colored leather, and then rounded the whole thing out with a twenty pound sack of high-protein kibble. Vaughn asked him questions about his new pet as he rang Stiles up at the register, ones that he mostly couldn't answer about age and breed and what its name was, and then offered to carry the food to his car while he shuffled bags between his hands.

"No thanks," Stiles declined, hiking it up onto his shoulder without completely embarrassing himself with a fumble. "I got it."

Vaughn frowned, something a little like hurt flashing across his face before he hid it away with a grin and a shrug.

Stiles scuffed his feet, surprised that he felt bad. He didn't like people, not in general, so he was confused as to why he felt any obligation to this guy he'd just met, no matter how helpful he'd been.

"But hey," he found himself saying, trying not to choke on the platitude, "Thanks. For the help, I mean."

"No big deal," the blonde smiled. "And listen, bring him in some time, yeah? Your dog. I'd love to meet him."

"Sure," Stiles answered, mentally making no promises.

Nodding goodbye, he carried the bags out to his car, loaded up and drove away, unaware of the young man watching him intently through the window of the store.

"Who's a pretty boy?" the parrot croaked brightly from its perch. "Pretty boy!"

"He certainly is," the young man murmured.

But he had sweeping to do.


	15. Chapter 15

By the time Stiles got back across town to the vet Clinic Scott was already there, his bike locked to the lamp post around the side of the building. There was only one other car in the parking lot which was nice, because Stiles was cutting it close to his curfew already, and he'd forgone stopping at home to drop off the groceries in order to make sure he didn't miss it. Seemed important, following the rules right now, and he'd gotten what he wanted by doing so, so he was willing to concede that ground for the time being.

Crawling into the back seat, Stiles shuffled the groceries around, making sure there was enough room in the trunk for the dog to stretch out a bit before grabbing the leash and collar he'd purchased and heading inside. The bell jangled noisily in the quiet lobby, empty but for Scott who was crouched down in front of a little boy and his mom, a massive green bullfrog in his hands. Glancing up, he cocked a thumb over his shoulder toward the examining rooms before going back to his client.

Ducking past the trio, Stiles slipped behind the counter and into the hall, heading for the surgery. Deaton was standing at one of the stainless steel counters, wearing latex gloves and examining a series of vials by holding them up to a high-powered light. From the ruby-red glow Stiles could only imagine they held blood samples.

"Hey doc," he said, much more casually than he felt.

"Mr. Stilinski."

Placing his vials back into the little plastic rack they'd come from, Deaton snapped off his gloves and tossed them into a lidded trash can, turned to gesture him down the hallway toward the kennels.

"I've removed his brace," he said as they walked, hands deep in the pockets of his white lab coat. "And replaced it with a smaller, more flexible one."

"Isn't that kind of soon?" Stiles asked, his brows drawing together in confusion. "I mean, his x-ray was pretty bad; shouldn't he have, like, and actual _cast_?"

"Normally I would say yes," Deaton replied, and it seemed a little too easy and a little too casual to Stiles' ears. "But the leg wasn't broken, only fractured. And after taking another x-ray this morning it appears it wasn't as bad as I had originally thought. He seems a sensible animal as well; he's keeping off it, resting quietly."

"He's doing ok then? He'll be ok if I…"

"With certain precautions, he should be just fine."

Stiles frowned, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he marched down the line of kennels to the last, found the dog on his feet, foreleg in the air with his face pressed against the door, waiting. At his approach the dog gave a long, high-pitched whine, swished his tail twice, then backed up with a short hop to give him room to open the door.

"You didn't say anything about precautions before," Stiles accused, lowering himself slowly to his knees

"I'm certain I did," the vet replied flatly, and Stiles flicked him a glare over his shoulder even as the dog came creeping up and draped himself over Stiles' lap, his body heavy as he practically collapsed on top of him.

"Remind me then," he sneered.

Cryptic, annoying bastard…

But then the dog was whining again and poking Stiles hand with a cold, damp nose in a plea for his attention, which he was more than happy to turn from the veterinarian.

"You're all right," he murmured, stroking him between the ears, pleased when the sudden tension went out of the animal's body with a long, drawn-out tremble.

Above him Deaton sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose in a rare display of exasperation.

"Be cautious with him Stiles," he said, and that sounded like the first rule. "He may seem calm and docile now, but he was a fighting dog. Don't push him around, give him space. Let him set the pace of this."

"Really don't think that's gonna be a problem," he muttered as the dog's tongue flicked out over his wrist.

Deaton made a humming sound that suggested skepticism, but Stiles ignored it.

"Don't tease him," the man continued, watching the dog now instead of Stiles. "He's not a puppy, or a trick pony. Treat him with dignity."

Which, ok, that one made a weird sort of sense.

"I don't wanna turn him into some circus poodle," Stiles said, and under his hands the dog's ears flicked.

"I'm glad to hear it. Try not to confine him either; small spaces, leashes, the like. It would be best if you could let him run."

"What, like, just free?" Stiles asked with surprise. He'd never had a dog before but that didn't seem right. His yard wasn't fenced and there were definitely some leashing requirements in Beacon Hills.

"… don't think it wise," Deaton went on, the first half of the sentence lost to his inattention. "A leash, even a collar is likely to make him feel… trapped, confined. He may lash out."

"Great," Stiles muttered, pulling both from the back pocket of his jeans, running the leather through his fingers. "Glad I dropped cash on that. What about the leash laws?"

"I would suggest you speak to your father," the man shrugged, a clear dismissal.

"Yeah, he doesn't exactly make exceptions," Stiles snipped, offended by the implication. "He…"

But the ensuing rant was cut off when he was startled to attention, the dog lurching upright at his side, freeing his legs and sniffing curiously at the collar in his hands. Flicking a glare in Deaton's direction, he held the collar open, let the dog get his fill of the leather before leaning forward slowly carefully. He could hear Deaton's voice behind him, low with warning but he ignored it, reaching back and buckling the collar carefully around the dog's neck.

"There you go big guy," he murmured gently as he worked the fastening, tracing his fingers over the collar, checking the tightness and adjusting it on the animal's neck. "Nothing to worry about huh? Handsome boy."

Flicking his ears, the dog looked down, or tried to, rocked on one hip to scratch at the collar with his hind leg before shaking out his ruff.

"There, see? Just a collar," he hummed, petting carefully at the dog's neck, a little unsettled by how intense and trusting the dog's gaze seemed to be as it stared him down, trying not to show it. "Gotta keep you safe. Don't want the dog catcher to get'cha do we? Have to get you a tag, in case you get lost. That way you'll be able to come home."

"You seem to have quite a way with him, Mr. Stilinski."

Back to formalities then.

Sound awfully bitter there doc...

"When do his stitches need to come out?" Stiles asked, standing up in the kennel and picking up his lacrosse blanket, still spread out on the floor.

"In about a week."

Turning as he folded the blanket into a neat square, Stiles grinned at Scott, who'd appeared quietly at his mentor's side.

"I already penciled him in for an appointment next Friday after school," he said. "Deaton said I could take 'em out."

"Cool," Stiles grinned. Not for him - he was still a little squeamish - but for Scott. He knew how much his friend loved animals, loved working at the clinic. It was mostly enough to keep Stiles from totally hating the guy he worked for.

"So if I can't leash him how do I walk him?" Stiles asked challengingly, turning his attention to said boss.

"Just see if he'll follow you," the man said, swinging open the gate of the kennel and gesturing him out. "He's been very well mannered so far, perhaps he was trained before he was fought. And he does seem attached to you."

Stiles shrugged, willing to try.

Stepping out of the kennel, he looked back and patted his leg softly, watching as the dog tilted his head.

"Come on buddy," he cajoled gently, patting his leg again. "Let's go home huh?"

It was heartbreaking, the way he moved. Getting slowly to his feet, head low, ears back, _fearful_. Slinking, wolf-like, even as he hopped with one foreleg off the ground. Deaton and Scott had both backed off and the dog crept between them with the hair on his back bristling, watching them both as best he could, quick, furtive glances to either side as he slunk towards Stiles' feet. Still, he followed, falling easily into a heel, shoulder level with Stiles' left thigh, close enough that his hand brushed his fur.

"Good boy," he murmured as they walked through the lobby, thankfully devoid of other pets and their people. "That's a good boy. See, nice and easy."

Deaton and Scott followed behind at a distance, watching silently, and Stiles felt something almost like judgement settle on his shoulders as he pushed the front door open and watched the dog take his first tentative steps onto the sidewalk toward the parking lot. He kept his body low, tail and ears tucked, pressed against Stiles' shins as he moved until they got to the Jeep and then he sat, turning on his hip so as to better lift his broken leg, a whine breaking out of his chest.

"Easy buddy," Stiles soothed, one hand tentative and gentle between the dog's ears while he opened the hatch with the other. "You're all right."

But then reality raised its head and gave him pause. His Jeep wasn't exactly easy-access - it was well off the ground and there was no way the dog could jump in with a bum leg - and despite his flippancy toward the vet Stiles knew that Deaton had made a few good points. He wasn't sure how well the dog would take to being lifted into the vehicle.

"Want some help?" Scott asked at his elbow, witching as Stiles laid the thickly folded lacrosse blanket in the bed of the trunk, a padded cushion against the jars and bumps in the road.

"Maybe. Think you can get his hips and I can get the front end?"

"Sure."

"All right then," Stiles huffed, clapping his hands together lightly.

"Do you want to muzzle him?" Scott asked, holding one hand out a bit so the dog could sniff, but he was thoroughly ignored as the animal continued to press himself against Stiles' legs.

"Nah man, I'm not sure that's a good idea," he declined. "He's was fine before, and he was scared and hurt, so… should be ok."

"Should being the operative," Scott scoffed with a frown, but he squared his feet and bent his knees anyway, waiting for Stiles' lead.

"Ok buddy, take it easy huh?" he muttered leaning over to put his arms beneath the dog's ribs. It had stood and was watching him calmly with a warm, steady gaze, eyes clear and blue as they moved between his face and the back of the Jeep. "Gonna get you right up and then we'll go home ok? So just…"

But then they were lifting him together, smooth and easy, and it was a lot easier than the first time when Stiles had had to pick him up alone that night in the rain. Beneath his hands the animal felt just as dense, all solid, compact muscle, and it was somehow reassuring that he hadn't wasted away to stringy leanness in all the time he'd been wallowing at the back of the clinic, fed on sugar-water through thin, plastic tubes.

Once they got him over the bumper the dog took up the slack, hopping out of their arms into the back and turning round to face them with a hesitant look, like he was unsure what to do next. Stiles chuckled, ruffled his good ear, and was pleased when it seemed to settle him enough to lie down and bury his nose in the lacrosse blankets. He was reluctant to close the hatch on him but he did it anyway, didn't slam it but closed it securely after him. He thought he might have heard a whine but he wasn't sure, forced himself not to turn and check.

Hell, he was already turning into a sap, wasn't he?

"Are you gonna be able to get him out?" Scott asked, and Stiles frowned at the question, since he hadn't thought of it himself.

"Hopefully."

"Mr. McCall, I believe we're clear for the rest of the afternoon," Deaton cut in and Stiles jumped, having almost forgotten the silent veterinarian's presence. "Just some routine vaccinations. If you'd care to, I'm sure Mr. Stilinski could use an extra pair of hands."

Looking past both boys, he stared at the back of Stiles' Jeep, contemplative, close-mouthed.

Until he spoke.

"Best to get him well settled."

And then he was turning around and walking back into the clinic, silent as the door swung shut behind him.

"Your boss is creepy dude," Stiles deadpanned, he and Scott both staring at the door.

"Yeah," Scott agreed with a shrug, "But he's a good vet. Come on man, let's get your new dog home."


	16. Chapter 16

He cried when they took him out of the back of the car.

His eyes had been half closed when he opened up the trunk, but Stiles thought it looked more like a druggy haze than good sleep, and it had been uncomfortable and awkward for him and Scott to get their arms underneath him and lift him out. They'd been as slow and careful as they could, but he's still yelped, a pained, high-pitched cry that Stiles felt inside his chest. Once they'd got him down onto the pavement he'd stood on his own, his splinted leg lifted, but Stiles could see the way that the muscles in his legs quivered, his legs shaking with the effort of holding his own weight.

Coaxing him into the house was another feat in itself. The dog was able to make it up the walk and onto the porch in stiff, pained hops, but the threshold of the front door seemed like a wall he couldn't breach. His head had immediately gone down, his ears flat against the back of his skull, the house looming over him, and it took all of the reassurance and cajoling Stiles could come with to get him inside.

Eventually he'd followed but it was strange, almost as though he understood the words but didn't trust them. Muscles tight, head still low to the ground as he slunk forward with his tail tucked, his eyes darted left and right as if he expected the walls to close on him at any moment, to swallow him up. He'd practically belly-crawled to Stiles' side, pushed heavily against his legs and whined in the back of his throat like he was apologizing, and Stiles could feel an answering tightness in his own chest.

"Come on buddy," he'd murmured, "Let's get you in, huh? Get you all set up. Nice bed, you can take a nap. Nice and safe and quiet."

Building him a little nest in the corner of the kitchen with a few ragged beach towels and the lacrosse blanket he'd slept on in the clinic, Stiles finally managed to get him settled, sitting against the wall until the dog laid down at his side and curled up tight, burying his nose between his paws and hunkering down low. Stiles waited quietly, stroking the top of his head tentatively with his fingertips while Scott came and went, carrying in the groceries and all the crap Stiles had bought at the pet store. Eventually he had everything piled up on the counters and stopped in front of the sink with his hands in his pockets, watching them contemplatively.

"Deaton sent some pain pills," he said, tilting his head when the dog whimpered and tried to curl himself up even tighter. "Just a few. He seems to be doing ok so far, but keep an eye on him. He'll start feeling better and want to move around some more, but don't let him over do it."

"Got it," Stiles nodded.

Though that might pose a bit of a problem. His dad had said he could bring the dog home but Stiles figured that the more out of the way he kept the animal the less opportunity his dad would have to change his mind. That and, well, he thought it might be nice to have the dog around. Sleeping at the end of the bed, hanging out next to his desk while he did his homework…

But it seemed like the stairs might not be an option for a while.

"Right now you just need to make sure he starts eating," Scott continued. "I haven't seen him eat anything yet and I'm pretty sure Deaton just had him on the sugar drip. He's drinking plenty of water so he shouldn't get sick or anything."

"I mean, he'll eat if he's hungry, right?" Stiles asked.

"Not always. If he hasn't eaten anything in a couple of days he might need to come back. Either way, stitches out on Saturday, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He might've said more - he was actually a little nervous now, knowing that the dog hadn't eaten _anything _the whole week he'd been at the vet's - but the sound of a car pulling into the drive had Scott leaning back to look down the hallway, through the glass set on either side of the front door.

"That's my mom," he said, jerking his chin toward the door. "I gotta work tomorrow morning, but I'll come over after, see how you guys are doing."

"Sounds good man."

Pushing up to his feet, Stiles offered his hand for a slap, pulling Scott in for a bro-hug and walking him toward the door, glancing backward the whole way to watch for the dog's reaction. He squirmed a little, like he wanted to follow but couldn't make his legs work well enough to get himself up, hunkering back down instead as his gaze began to dart back and forth between the walls again, and Stiles was only a little bit ashamed to say that he hurried his friend out the door, waving briefly to Melissa before ducking back inside.

He moaned when Stiles stepped back into the kitchen, a long, low sound of frightened relief mimicked by the way his body sagged, settled against the blankets. It was painful to watch, and Stiles felt his hands open and close at his sides. He hated that feeling of helplessness, fought so hard against it, but he was surprised to find that he wasn't resentful of the dog for bringing it out of him. That was how he normally operated, all retaliation and scowls and hatred for the things that made him feel, but now he realized that all he really wanted to do was help, even if that just meant sitting at the dog's side and riding it out.

"You're ok," he murmured, wiping his palms on his jeans, moving slowly towards the bags on the counter, riffling through them until he found the stainless steel bowls he'd bought. Filling one with cold water from the tap, he sat it on the floor as close to the dog's nose as he could get it while keeping it out of spilling range. Taking a careful step back, he was happy to see him lean forward, sniff at the bowl before taking a couple of laps. It wasn't much but it was still reassuring, especially when he didn't even spare a glance at the tiny scoop of kibble Stiles offered next.

For the next hour and half he put away the groceries, leaving out ground beef for the stuffed peppers he planned for dinner. He kept up a pretty consistent stream of low, quiet chatter, his voice calm and steady as he walked back and forth across the kitchen floor between the cabinets and the fridge, but mostly the dog just seemed to doze, his head bobbing on his neck like he just couldn't keep himself awake. Stiles watched with fond amusement as he stashed the dog food under the sink, put the Milkbones in a canister on the counter, but the rest, the leash and the toys and things he left in bags, ready to take upstairs to his room. By the time he'd washed his hands and got to work browning the hamburger, mixing it up with rice, chilis, and spices, the dog had perked up a little, dragging himself upright for a long drink and shifting onto his haunches.

"Feeling a little better?" Stiles asked, picking up a knife and slicing the tops off of four large bell peppers.

Shaking out his ruff, the dog made a small sound at the back of his throat and Stiles laughed. While he spooned the filling into the peppers, he watched as the dog wobbled a bit, steadied himself before looking around. He still seemed suspicious of the house itself, cowering beneath the ceiling, watching the walls with visible mistrust.

"You're all right."

But the sound of tires in the driveway seemed to contradict his words. Flinching, the dog backed into his corner, pressed himself low against the wall and Stiles tilted his head in confusion, shoved the pan of peppers into the oven and dried his hands on a towel.

"What's the matter buddy?" he asked, crouching to rub the dog's ears. "It's just my dad, it's ok."

Confused by the dog's sudden fear, he stood and leaned into the hallway, watched his father step inside the front door and immediately start stripping out of his jacket. He noticed his son hovering near the kitchen, arced an eyebrow in question before toeing off his boots and lining them up in the coat closet.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Snapped to attention by innocuous words, his coat only half hung, the Sheriff narrowed his eyes, concern and confusion of his own evident on his face.

"What's wrong?"

Stiles huffed, frowned, scratched his head as he looked back at the dog who seemed to have shrunk in on himself, made himself as small as he possibly could.

"I don't… can you just come here?"

Trotting down the hallway he grabbed his father by the wrist, ignored his gruff spluttering and pulled him into the middle of the kitchen. Letting go, he took a step away, sank slowly down to the floor where he sat, motioning for his father to do the same.

He didn't.

"Stiles…"

_Oh_...

Heart skipping in his chest, Stiles tore his gaze away from the dog who was still crouched in the corner, ears flat and teeth showing beneath his lip, shifted it to his father who had a look of dumbfounded shock on his face.

"Stiles, what did you…"

A high pitched whine broke out of the dog's chest and he lurched, staggering upright in a move that looked like nothing so much as lunging, and the Sheriff's hand when automatically to his pistol, but then Stiles was jumping to his feet too and pushing between them, his arms out.

"Woah, no, ok!" he yelped, the dog staggering against his legs and his dad's hand still tight on the butt of his gun, mouth a grim line. "It's just the dog, the dog I hit! You said, you said I could bring him home, I brought him home…"

"Stiles that is not a dog," his father said, his voice low and flat and hard, in the way he talked to the drunk and disorderlies, in the voice that had them backing down like chastised pups themselves. Reaching out slowly, he grabbed Stiles' wrist in a bruising grip, dragged him away from the dog who was wobbling on his feet, and Stiles only went because he knew somehow that struggling was going to make everything ten times worse.

"Dad he's just a dog," he insisted. "He wasn't jumping, he was just getting up. His leg's just busted. He's fine, look."

"That's not a dog."

_Probably not_.

"Sure he is," Stiles bluffed, his hand free and resting on his dad's forearm now, stilling the man even though his grip had eased on his gun. "Deaton said he's fine. A dog, just a dog."

"Yeah right," his father scoffed, still watching the dog as though he might leap at any moment. "If that quack vet thinks this is a dog, he needs to resign - I'll eat my badge if he's not at least half wolf."

"Dad he's fine, I promise," Stiles urged, getting a little frantic now, gaze flicking back to the dog who was lowering himself down to the floor again, whining high in his throat. "He might've… been fought a little but he's just a dog. A big dog."

"Damn it Stiles, a fighting dog?"

"Maybe?" he whined, squirming in place. "We don't know for sure. But he's a good dog, he just… look."

Taking three steps away, Stiles put as much space between himself and his father as the small kitchen allowed, sank into a crouch and patted his thigh.

"Come here buddy," he said softly, sending up a silent prayer that the dog would be as good as he'd been so far. This was kind of an important audition here. "Come on."

The dog turned to him, head low, a look of apology on his face that was shocking to see on an animal, but that was all the acknowledgement he got. Dropping to the floor, he half turned onto his good side, wiggling forward towards his dad's feet, whimpering and cringing, gaze fixed carefully downward as he showed his throat, the soft, damaged side of his belly.

"Woah," Stiles breathed. "That's…"

His dad sighed - heavy, weary, disappointed.

"Pack behavior," he said, and Stiles felt a weight settle into his belly. "That's how a wolf submits itself to a higher member of a pack."

"But… I mean, that's good right?" Stiles chuckled nervously, looking for a bright side to focus his father on. "Obviously you're the boss around here."

"Stiles…"

Another sigh.

Dropping slowly into a crouch, the Sheriff held out a tentative hand, let the dog sniff it before patting him twice on the head, and it was with a finality that had Stiles' spirits sinking right through the floor.

"Oh come on dad!" he pleaded, "Even if he is part wolf, he obviously knows what's up. It's not fair to judge him on that."

"Fair?" his father asked, standing again in what must have translated as a release because the dog got slowly to his feet and hopped back to his corner, laid down again in a visible attempt to keep himself out of the way. "Stiles I know you had your heart set on keeping him, god knows I was hoping not to break it, but is it fair to keep him here? Think about it son - he's got a drive and prey instincts that a dog doesn't. Is it fair to keep him locked up in the house all day while you're at school? Or to drag him around on a leash when everything in him tells him that the neighbor's cat is the difference between a full belly and starving?"

"Dad he's not like that!" Stiles choked, but he could feel the doubt whispering in his ears, even above the fear that rose in his throat.

"Stiles you can't know that," he father said, and then his hand was squeezing Stiles' shoulder but that wasn't making it any better. "Look. I know how important it is to you to… take care of him. So he can stay here for a few days, sleep in the laundry room. Until we can figure out what to do with him."

"Dad, no…"

"A rescue group," the Sheriff said, raising his hands against the sheer panic that must have shown on Stiles' face. "A sanctuary. Maybe even a rehoming program. They're putting wolves back up in Yellowstone now; I'm sure we can find someone to take him."

"Dad…"

"I'm… I'm sorry Stiles. But that's the way it's gotta be."


	17. Chapter 17

The ride in the car hurt.

Every turn and bump, every brake and acceleration - they were forces pulling on his battered body in ways that made him want to curl up and hide away, find someplace quiet to wait until he either healed or died. And the pain was only half of the ache. The enclosed space, the small rustling sounds and creaking shifts of the bags and the vehicle all around him were unsettling. The only reason he'd gotten in in the first place was because the boy had put him there, and because the air was close and humid and redolent with the scent of him, thick and pungent. It was comforting, as was the boy's voice as the car lurched beneath him and carried him off to unknown places, enough that for the time being it staved off the panic.

He'd cried out when they lifted him down. He'd tried not to but the boy, the other boy, not his, had lifted his hips in a way that turned his back end just a bit wrong, pinching the stitches in his abdomen, and more than that there was a weariness in his bones that made it hard to stand, hard to hold his own weight.

Going inside the house was even harder.

Buildings weren't good, were never good. They held things like cages and tools, beatings and the constant drum beat of barking that hurt his head and echoed in his ears. They held the rings, the pits, the blood and the fighting, and where those were things he held a pained affinity for, rushed for, he was in no condition to kill, no condition to even defend himself.

But the boy had called him, crouched, patted his legs, wheedled and cajoled, and slowly, slowly, he'd crept inside, over the threshold and into the hallway, between the walls that he watched with great suspicion. Each doorway was dangerous, each room deep inside the dwelling a place for something or someone to hide, to come lunging from. The reassurances that came in a calm, steady voice only went so far to calm him as he crept along, and it was a relief to be able to press himself back into a corner when a little bed was made for him, to protect his back and his flanks.

For a while the boy sat beside him while the other one came and went, carrying things back and forth, but eventually he left and that was good. He hadn't done anything terrible, had always appeared calm and kind, and the boy seemed to like him quite a lot, smelled… not quite happy, but more content when he was there.

Almost pack.

Still, he felt a little better when the other finally left. He didn't like being here, in this house, even though it was his, the boy's. It was still an unknown, deeper and full of winding halls that felt somber somehow, like there were shadows living here that he couldn't see. He tried to stay awake, alert to those silent whisper, but the pain and the weariness dragged at him and he couldn't keep the world from slowing down again, like being mired in a swamp while the boy's voice hummed soothingly in his ears as he moved around the small room, the air starting to fill up with a meaty, spicy scent that just tickled at the non-existent edges of his appetite.

After a while he sat up, drank a bit of water which was cool and perfect, and was a little more aware of his surroundings, watching as the boy worked at the counters, continued talking to him quietly. There was something foreign in his voice, something he remembered but hadn't felt in a long time, like he was worried, and he tried to make a small sound of reassurance that resulted in a laugh. A soft warmth filled up his chest at that sound, a sort of pride that he had brought it out of the boy, that for a moment his scent wasn't so acrid with bitterness and pain.

That feeling was short lived.

There was a sound at the front of the house like the crunch of bone, the low thrumming growl of another vehicle, and those were never good things, the other men arriving with their dogs and their clubs and their friends, all sweat and alcohol and loud bets, dirty money and hoarse shouting and blood and chains. The fear surged in him, flooded through him hot and cold, and he backed quickly into the corner again, made himself small. The boy's hand came out and he flinched, ducked beneath the touch though it didn't bring the anticipated pain, and relief made his limbs go watery underneath him when he went away, walked across the room and leaned out, called down the hallway.

A low, gruff voice rumbled from somewhere close by, made him cringe, even though the boy was calm and unafraid. His muscles trembled as he crouched, and then the boy was dragging a man into the room, not the young boy from before but a man, tall and commanding, feet spread wide. He smelled like the boy, like blooded family, like _pack_, and more than that like power. Like strength and stability and control.

This man was an Alpha.

Even if he didn't radiate the position, didn't command the space as soon as he walked into it, the boy did as he should and immediately lowered himself, sank down to the ground and tipped his head up, showing his neck. Terrified, in the territory of a strange Alpha without permission, death and pain wasn't exactly out of the question, and every instinct in him demanded that he prostrate himself before this man, apologize, submit. Whining, staggering to his feet, he was prepared for the swift reaction of the Alpha but not the boy who leapt between them. Words were exchanged, hard and harsh, but then the Alpha was moving the boy away, out from between them which was right even if it felt more vulnerable.

Words then, more words, rough in his ears, and even if they didn't mean much to him the tones did, the pleading and the concern and the disappointment on both sides and if made him cower but he waited, knew his place. He was lowest on the chain here, not pack, nothing, and until he was given leave he would wait.

That leave came, when the boy crouched, turned to him and called him, and he was torn, painfully torn, because something was being asked of him. The boy was calling him, demanding he come, and he should. Hierarchy and his position on it meant that he do anything he was told, but there was more than that at play - the boy was effectively a beta, and his Alpha still waited, still watched.

Ducking his head, tucking his tail in apology, he turned away and dropped to the floor, rolling onto his side to show his belly, his throat, clawing himself forward to the man's feet. Whimpering, turning his gaze down and away, he waited, trembling, for the verdict, his bladder heavy and his entire body trembling. Minutes, hours, years passed as he lay on his back, fear scorching his veins until the man finally crouched, offered his hand and patted his head, a little bit rough, and little bit short, but it was enough to ease the terrible fear, enough to rid his muscles of the paralysis that held him to the floor.

Turning over, ignoring the sharp pinch and ache in his side, he limped back to his corner, got himself out of the way, returned himself to where he'd been put. More words were exchanged but no many, and once again it was the tone of those words that was unsettling, that made him afraid. The fragile, agonized silence that followed was worse. The boy's hands shook as he moved stiffly around the small room, took a dish from the oven and a jug from the box that let a flush of cold air into the room, lifted glass from cabinets to the counter. He smelled a bit like charcoal, bitter wisps clinging to an aching sadness, and the man wasn't much better. The Alpha's hurt and regret were like ripe cherries in his nose, but the heavy molasses stench of resolve clung to him too.

The dog kept his head low as the two sat down at the counter, ate in silence as the pain wavered in the air between them like a taut string that had been plucked. A whimper built in his chest but caught between his teeth before it could get out, leaving him with a feeling of suffocation that hurt his throat and only increased the anxiety that seared his nerve endings. As he watched it quickly became clear that this pack was not nearly as stable as it seemed, the few bonds between its sole two members shaky and questioned. He could see it, the small ticks and twitches from the boy that were clearly pleas for direction and comfort from his Alpha, the aborted movements from the older man that belied uncertainty and lack of confidence but a great desire to comfort his pack member, his son.

Needing each other, desperate for the support, the promise, and yet every time, something, pulling them apart.

He felt no relief when the Alpha left the room. He could hear the man on the stairs, could hear him move slowly on the floor above, but the solemnity that had fallen over the house was heavy and cloying and he could sense the seriousness of a decree having been passed, an Alpha's order hanging over them all. For a time the boy moved slowly about the room, standing at the sink where the sound of water dappled against the metal sink, a spark of chemical-apple-soap scent bursting from a plastic bottle he squeezed so hard in his hands that the thick plastic crunched and crackled with a harsh sound that grated on his sensitive ears. A time later, the boy hung his head, sighed shakily, and the whine caught in his throat finally broke free, forlorn and a little frightened.

"It's ok."

He ducked his head, lowered his muzzle onto his paws.

Those words.

The more he heard them the more they began to feel like a lie.

He wanted to believe the sentiment behind them. They were meant to feel like a reassurance, spoken softly and accompanied by a gentle pat on the head, the boy's fingers rubbing around his ears, but the sharp scent of salt and the tremor in his voice said that the boy wasn't sure of his own words, so how could he place his faith in them? In this young man who'd broken into a world of cold and darkness and pain and was already far too important? The doubt, the uncertainty practically glued him to the floor, and when the boy lifted plastic bags into his arms and left the room, it was that that kept him from following. Instead he waited, stayed where he'd been allowed, listening to the small sounds of the two people moving quietly about the house.

Eventually the boy returned, coaxed him up - a feat more painful and wearisome by the minute. Anxiety heated his boy when his blankets were picked up, shaken out and draped over the boy's arm, but then a hand was touching the leather band around his neck, not tugging, just guiding, leading him down a narrow hallway and into a small room that was cooler than the rest of the house, with a cement floor and bare, unfinished walls. He cowered, frightened by the room, the faint scent of dank and mildew beneath the harsh, artificially floral scent of soaps reminding him of all the small, dark places that lurked in his memory. But the boy was already laying down the blankets, making up the bed and again, and putting him down in the middle of them was enough to tell him his place.

That wasn't to say that he didn't try to follow when the boy stepped back out into the hallway, but a low, firm reprimand sent him back to the corner, and then there was a high, latticed barrier being snapped into place, blocking the open doorway. Sizing it in his mind he thought he might be able to rest his chin on it and look over if he stood, an easy leap he wouldn't think twice about in good condition, but his leg still ached beneath the stiff bits of plastic strapped around it, his healing still working sluggishly to heal the fractured bone. There was no way he could make that jump now.

Ducking his head miserably, he watched with a growing feeling of fear, disappointment, shame as the boy looked down on him with a pained expression, mumbled something in a broken sort of voice and then disappeared, leaving him alone in the dark with the flick of a switch. Stumbling to his feet he wobbled toward the blocked doorway, tried to look out down the hallway, but even with his eyesight he couldn't see into the black of the house. Listening carefully, he strained to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the small creaks and groans of the floor above. Scrapes, shuffling, a burst of water, and then, for a time, silence.

Sitting down on his haunches, he continued to listen miserably, while above him he could hear the Alpha's steady heartbeat, quiet breathing, still in sleep. The boy was another matter altogether. For a few minutes there would be silence from him, but then a sigh, a huff, a thump and a squeak as he turned over and over, distressed, and it only served to increase his own anxiety. He could scent the phantom acidity of it, the sharp, lemony smell that needled at the inside of his nose, and he couldn't stop himself from whining, a long, high-pitched sound like a whistle that broke out of him before he could stop it. He wouldn't whimper, wouldn't wail, wouldn't howl his pain to the skies the way he wanted to, _needed _to, because he wasn't permitted that release. He'd been put away, effectively caged and silenced, and to disturb the Alpha or the beta of this small pack, to upset the balance in foreign territory was to invite consequences.

That fear still lived in him.

He thought he might have had a pack once. He remembered… something, knew things, felt things, but it was all dim and hazy and far away, and he wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing, but the one thing he did know was his place.

It made him tremble that he couldn't stop the cries, couldn't stifle the silent whimpers, especially when the noises from above abruptly stopped.

Flinching, he crept guiltily back to the blankets he'd been allowed, his tail tucked tightly and his shoulders hunched. Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs, coming closer this time and he cringed with each one, certain he'd made a mistake and was about to receive his punishment. The boy appeared in the doorway with a light in his hand, a large, bulky lump under his arm, his face bathed in a soft, pale glow that made his huge, dark eyes shine. He looked rumpled and haunted, dressed in soft black sweats and a t-shirt that hung off his frame, a child in clothes too large. Sighing softly, his shoulders slumped and then he was stepping over the gate and dropping something down beside him, a pillow that puffed a thick, concentrated burst of the boy's scent into the air.

Pushing backward, he watched with confusion as the boy set the small light down atop one of the two large metal machines in the corner, splashing the room with a pale bluish glow, and then he was lying down next to him and pulling the pillow into his arms, reaching out just enough with one hand that his fingertips brushed against his good leg.

"Good boy."

Oh.

Oh, he liked those words.

Those words… they were nice.

It had been a long time, so long, but he knew them and they were nice, sent an incredible rush of pleasant warmth through his body and an impossible relief from tension he hadn't known he was holding. Laying his head down again, he let himself relax, breathed in the warm, damp air that the boy exhaled, and it was only moments before those breaths leveled out, his heartbeat steadying and the citrus of distress receded until it had faded entirely. It was in that moment, that blip in time that things felt right, that he was where he was supposed to be again, and in that moment nothing was threatening and nothing hurt.

He became so wrapped up in it, fell so deeply into the peace that he didn't even realize the Alpha had woken until the man stood over them in the doorway, the dim light casting his face half in shadow, lined it with pain and doubt and the terrible kind of love that slashed at your defenses until there was nothing left of you.

Exhaling heavily, a sound much like the one his son had made, he too stepped over the gate and walked toward the light, reached up and took down another light blanket from a cabinet before shaking it out and letting it fall lightly over his son's sleeping form. Crouching down, he carded his hand through the boy's hair, stared at his slack face like he was looking for the answer to an unasked question, and the dog whined, low and quiet. The Alpha turned his gaze, watched as the dog leaned forward cautiously and gave him a brief lick on the wrist.

The man sighed.

"All right."


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles woke up with a pained groan and an all-over body ache that he didn't understand until his eyes fluttered open and he found himself looking at the lint collected beneath the edge of the washing machine. The linoleum beneath him was cold and tacky and did nothing to cushion his joints against the cement floor underneath, which left a bone-deep throbbing in his hips, his knees, his shoulders…

What the hell was he doing in the laundry room?

Curling upright, he blinked at the blanket that fell from his shoulders, couldn't remember taking it down from the linen cupboard the night before when he'd dragged his pillow down the stairs with him in the dark. He remembered that bit, remembered tossing and turning…

Dog!

Whipping round, Stiles stumbled upright, hand flashing to the base of his skull where a sudden hammer blast threatened a migraine. Looking around, he felt his heart climb into his throat when he found the little nest of blankets abandoned, leapt toward the dryer to check the only small, dark corner in the room, but it was empty. Spinning on his heels, fear burned hot in his veins when he saw that his little cousin's baby gate had been taken out from the doorway, slid neatly back into the space between the machines where he'd gotten it, and no, there was no way…

_He wouldn't_…

Stumbling out of the laundry room with anger suddenly bubbling up hot and sour in the pit of his stomach, Stiles bolted for the front door, intent on chasing down his father's patrol car if he had to, but before he even hit the hallway he came skidding to a stop, hit in the face with the rich, heavy scent of his father's dark roast coffee and the profile of the man himself standing on the back porch, cutting the early morning sun that was streaming in through the screen door. The sight made his heart stammer and stall, made his breath catch because it wasn't normal, not anymore. It had been years since his dad had drunk his coffee out there, watching the sun.

That was something he'd done with Stiles' mom, and hadn't really done since.

Frozen in the hallway Stiles was suddenly seven years old again and didn't know what to do, didn't know if he could charge out there in righteous anger or even slink out quiet and cautious and careful. In the end his feet decided for him, carrying him forward until his hand reached out and pulled open the old screen with a hideous screech, making him flinch from the noise, but his dad didn't even turn toward him. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he stepped out onto the porch and walked carefully up to his dad's side, and was surprised when the sight of the large black dog limping around the backyard only offered him a small measure of relief. The air around his dad was all somber and heaviness, and Stiles could feel it down to his toes.

"Hasn't even tried to leave the yard," his dad said quietly, and his voice was low and gruff and sent a pang through Stiles' chest. "Kind of remarkable really. Like he knows where the property line is."

Stiles frowned, looked out at the yard. It wasn't fenced, though there was a ratty, weed-filled garden along one side and sparse trees scattered at the back, a long, thin needle of the Preserve curling down around the edge of the county and stretching into town. Lowering himself down onto the top step of the porch, he watched as the dog hobbled back and forth, pausing here and there to sniff at the grass, and it did seem like he was pacing the perimeter; poking through the edge of the garden, weaving a wobbly line between the nearest of the thin, scraggly trees, and then a dead straight line back up toward the house, nose down like he was following an invisible boundary between their yard and Ms. Simmons' next door.

"Is that normal?" Stiles asked, his brows drawn together, and at the sound of his voice the dog's head snapped up, ears swiveling in his direction, and that electric glow seemed to be back, cutting at Stiles so sharply that he felt a shiver roll down his spine.

"I don't know," his father admitted. "Not for dog's I don't think. I've never seen anything like it before, not even with the K9's we've had."

"So it's a wolf thing?"

"Maybe. Maybe he's just smart. If he can smell where we've been, where we've walked he might recognize it as our territory. He's hurt too, so it's not like he can run. You've taken care of him so far, he knows he safe here while he heals."

"I guess that makes sense," he mused.

The dog had hobbled over to him while they talked and was now just an arm's length away, head ducked as he kept himself low to the ground, creeping slowly forward. Stretching out a hand, Stiles let him sniff at his fingers, smiled when a pink tongue flicked out across his knuckles, and then he was easing himself down to lie on top of Stiles' socked feet pressed firmly against his shins.

"Did he eat at all?" he asked after a moment, leaning forward to stroke the fur along the dog's spine even as he looked up at his father. The Sheriff was staring down intently, a frown on his face as he watched the interaction, and for a while he said nothing. Then he sighed, shifted his weight and took a sip from the mug that steamed in the cool morning air.

"No," he answered, "But I didn't try to feed him. Was hard enough getting him out here. He didn't want to leave you, but…"

"But?"

"I don't know Stiles. What do you want me to say? He seems like a good dog, even though he'd definitely not. So far he's listened and done what he's told, hasn't tried to run off, but…"

Stiles sighed, weary and melancholy though he wasn't sure he should be.

"But."

Another heavy, silent moment.

"I just don't know what to tell you kid."

"Can we just… can I try? Please?"

The hand on the top of his head startled him, the fingers that carded gently through his hair, pet him just like he was petting the dog laying on top of his feet. They didn't do this - casual, affectionate touch - but he tried not to jump beneath it and even though it made a part of him uncomfortable, made him nervous, in truth it was kind of… nice.

So he sat still, swallowed at the lump in his throat and let his dad drop his hand, curl it around the side of his neck.

"I'll think about it ok? We'll see how he does this week, while he still has the brace on. And then maybe after he's better… I'll think about it."

This time the relief was full and calming, his muscles going lax even if it was only half a promise. It was still enough to make his muscles go loose where he hadn't even realized that they were so tense, had him blowing out a sigh. Words were jumbly inside the endorphin rush, so he didn't try to say anything, instead just leaning back into his father's touch, tipping his head when the man squeezed his shoulders.

"I have to go to work," he said. "Be good ok? I'll leave your keys in the hall for emergencies, but something tells me you'll be here."

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed, clearing his throat when the words came out tight and a little raw. "Scott might come over later, but I think we'll just… hang out."

"All right. You call me, if anything…"

"I will."

"All right then."

**XXX**

He slept well.

That was… different.

But he'd slept long and deeply, safe with an Alpha nearby even if it wasn't his, and the heat and scent of the boy curled against his body. He'd gone to sleep with a lot of want and just a bit of hope warming his insides, and for once didn't dream of fire or ash or the pain and cacophony of the fighting pits.

He'd woken to the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and then dripping, bubbling sounds accompanied by a dark, rich aroma that actually poked a bit at his appetite. Moments later the Alpha had appeared at the door, looking down at him with an inscrutable face, and all he could do was wriggle onto his side to show his belly, keep his eyes glued firmly to the floor. His heart pounded for the space of a silent second before the man side, bent to remove the little gate across the doorway and pat his thigh.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you out."

The command, gentle as it was, had him struggling immediately to his feet without conscious thought, but once he was there hesitation set in. His instincts tore him in two directions, demanded he obey the Alpha that towered over him and at the same time that he not abandon the boy, that he not leave him to wake up alone and cold as he had so many times before. He'd whimpered, sniffed at the boy's hand, but the Alpha had grumbled roughly under his breath, and while it sounded more reassuring than chastising, he'd crept up to the man's boots and twisted round to show the side of his neck. He'd only just managed holding back a flinch when the man stooped and lowered a hand toward his head, but the heavy, not-too-gentle pats that ran over his good ear and down his side over his ribs was reassuring somehow. He wasn't being gentle, which was… good, right. But the touch was comforting, felt... nice.

And it had been a long time since he'd just felt nice.

The man had led him down a narrow, enclosed hallway that brought his anxiety back up as the house seemed to close in around him. He still didn't like confined spaces, couldn't control the way his hackles rose. You couldn't fight in tight places, couldn't turn and run either. They were places that held traps, and remembering the low, tense words of the night before made him hunker lower and lower to the floor as he limped along behind the Alpha.

But then a door had opened up and warm, clean air swept in to the hallway and he'd been stepping out into a huge, open space out from under any roof or walls, and the ache in his chest had been almost overwhelming. He couldn't remember the last time he stepped out into the sunlight free of a chain or a strap, unleashed into freedom with a breeze ruffling his fur and the sun hot on his shoulders. Scents and sounds assaulted him a rate he couldn't process, and he ended up stumbling down the rickety wooden steps so hard he almost fell on his face.

And then there was cool, soft green grass underneath his paws and he couldn't remember when he'd last felt anything like that either.

Just… perfect.

He couldn't flop over onto his back and wriggle like he wanted to, but he pulled off a decent facsimile, half on his side and rubbing his good shoulder against the earth, feeling it beneath him, wallowing in the scent of it.

Not even the Alpha's unimpressed gaze could lessen that moment.

After he'd gotten his fill he'd trotted round the yard a bit, exploring all the different smells, the sheer, simple pleasure of being able to move freely, or as freely as the walking cast and the lingering ache in his leg would allow. He was so caught in it, the movement and the smells and the sounds and just _being _that at first he didn't realize the boy had joined the Alpha, his father, on the porch steps. The two spoke quietly, calmly despite the barest cooking sugar scent of sorrow carried to him by the light morning breeze. He made his way over slowly, unsure of his welcome, but then a hand had been reached out to him and he took the acceptance gladly, lying down on top of the boy's feet and pressing close. The two men continued to speak quietly between themselves but he didn't feel it too important to listen.

He drifted for a bit after that but eventually the boy began to stretch his toes underneath his body and so he dragged himself up, followed him inside. The Alpha had gone, his scent and the rich, earthy one from before just beginning to fade, so for a while he just followed quietly on the boy's heels, back into the kitchen where he drank a little water but turned away from the bowl of food the boy put down. It looked fine, smelled fine, but his belly still felt soft and tender, and there was no desire in him to eat. That pulled an unhappy sigh and a frown from the boy, who tinkered around the kitchen reigniting the smell that had followed the Alpha and just tickled at his senses.

It still wasn't enough to make him hungry.

He was content enough, however, to follow the boy into the next room and curl up on the end of the couch when he was invited up, his muzzle on top of the boy's thigh when he sprawled out and clicked on a box that blared with sound and made him jump before the noise dulled. Rubbing the base of his ears gently in reassurance, the boy sat back and settled in, and after a few minutes of tight, tense muscles he was able to do the same, sinking down and dozing off as the morning sun poured in through the window and kept him warm and loose. The boy talked to him almost like he didn't know he was doing it, keeping up a quiet, steady stream of chatter, and the dull vibrations of the boy's voice rolling through his body quickly had him dozing off, eyelids dropping and limbs going heavy.

At least until his tone changed, shifting from calm and relaxed to vaguely frustrated.

"You know, you're not being a huge help here," he muttered, and when he looked up, plastering his ears back in contrition, he saw a small frown on the boy's face. "You gotta give me _something_."

Ashamed despite not being sure what he'd done, not even sure that he was truly being chastised, he slunk off the couch and lay on the floor, whining apologies.

"I'm not kidding, _you_," the boy muttered, turning to drop his feet down to the floor and poke his shoulder lightly with a toe. "If we can't figure this out I'm gonna end up calling you something completely ridiculous. Like, like Fluffy, or… Sweetums, or… _Miguel_!"

So that was it.

Heaving a sigh a relief, he did his best to convey a shrug, indifference. He'd fought as 'the wolf' or 'that big, black fucker,' and he wasn't sure he even _remembered _what he'd been called before that. There were quiet, hazy memories there somewhere, like the dream of a different life, a… a name. _His _name.

It didn't matter, he supposed.

The boy could call him what he liked - he would answer.

"We could always go with the horrible cliché," the boy mused, stroking his foot along his back now, petting him without shifting down off the couch. "You know; Blacky, Wolf." He huffed, rolled his eyes, looked up just in time to see the boy narrow his. "_Sour_wolf," he said in an accusatory tone. "Actually, I might be on to something there, with the animal theme. Shark? Moose? Bear?"

Bear?

Wobbling upright, his ears swiveled and he whined high in his throat. That one rang a bell, a distant bell. Bear? Bear-bear? It sounded… He didn't know. Like he'd heard it before, somewhere, a lyrical voice coming from somewhere under water, the loving, teasing tone bubbling through…

"You like that one?" the boy asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Bear?"

Another whimper.

That name, it pulled at something in him, made his chest hurt. Pushing forward, he crowded in between the boy's knees and pushed his muzzle beneath his hand, daring to demand the comforting contact.

"I like that one too."


End file.
